Fire and Ice
by probablysomebody
Summary: [Currently under some revision] War is war, until your emotions get in the way. In Warsaw, Feliks Łukasiewicz and Gilbert Beilschmidt find themselves caught up in the human side of the Second World War, with deadly consequences. In Moscow, Toris Laurinaitis finds himself in a rather tricky relationship with Ivan Braginsky, wondering where the man ends and the country begins...
1. The Beginning

**_Content Warnings_**

This is, as you might expect, generally pretty dark.

-Mentions of/implied rape and other forms of sexual violence.

-Graphic depictions of violence, including torture and gore.

-Implied/referenced abuse.

-Implied/referenced substance (mostly alcohol) abuse.

-Depictions of war.

-Depictions of misc. gross things (ie, vomit).

-References to the Holocaust.

-References to various other historical sensitive subjects (ie, Stalinist deportations)

-Period-typical racism/anti-Semitism, sexism, and homophobia.

_Please don't be afraid to ask me to add something to this list if you need me to._

**_"The history of the world is its judgement." -Friedrich von Schiller_**

**_Warsaw_**

**_2 September 1939_**

The rising sun cast its feeble rays on the lonely figure of Feliks Łukasiewicz sitting at his kitchen table. He was staring blankly at the table, oblivious: he was still caught up in the events of yesterday.

_I can stay in Warsaw, though,_ he thought, not for the first time-he had clung to it through the long night like it was a piece of driftwood keeping him afloat in the dark vastness of the sea.

_I should have listened to Toris,_ was the thought that had plagued him alll, threatening to pull him under.

The light grew stronger, but Feliks remained still, trying to keep himself from drowning. Twenty-one years of freedom was nowhere near long enough.

_I can stay in Warsaw_. He was grasping at the thought with increasing desperation, struggling to breathe.

The sound of someone knocking loudly at his front door dragged him from his thoughts, but he still found himself frozen in his seat.

_Suppose it's_... He couldn't finish the thought; dread at the list of people who were probably on the other side of his door was an anchor pulling back into the sea...

But the knocking didn't stop, and Feliks forced himself to stand-to walk with legs of lead-to open the heavy door-

A tall man pushed himself past Feliks and shut the door before Feliks could register who he was.

"_Pan_ Feliks!" he exclaimed, out of breath. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you-"

"No, no, you didn't," Feliks said, trying not to laugh from exhausted relief. Dariusz Markowicz was a friend, not an enemy.

Markowicz nodded, trying to steady his breathing, and Feliks waited for him to do so. Friend or not, this wasn't going to be a fun conversation. He hoped he wasn't fidgeting too much as Markowicz ran his fingers through his messy blond hair in a weak attempt to tame it.

Taking a deep breath, Markowicz said, "People are saying-well, it's not even nine o'clock yet, but people are saying-it isn't true, is it?" His pale blue eyes searched Feliks's face for any trace of hope and found none; he bowed his head, and Feliks swallowed nervously, running through different responses in his head.

All he was capable of saying was, "I'm sorry."

Markowicz shook his head, too upset to speak, and Feliks stood there awkwardly, not sure how to break the silence.

"Would you-would you like to come into the kitchen and, and, sit down?" he asked, wincing a little as he worried about Markowicz's reaction.

"Ye-yes, thank you," he replied, looking up again, and Feliks nodded and led him through the hall into his small kitchen.

Markowicz hesitated before taking a seat at the table, not entirely comfortable with seeing Feliks look so human; he had dark shadows under his eyes and his face was pale, and he couldn't help but notice that his hands were shaking slightly as he messed around at the stove, putting a kettle on for tea.

"If-if you don't mind my asking, _P__an_ Feliks, what-what are the specific details of-of the situation?"

Feliks busied himself at the stove for another minute before deciding that he should probably answer the question; he took a deep breath before turning around and sitting opposite Markowicz at the table, his hands clasped to disguise his nervousness.

"I-I honestly don't know all the details," he admitted, staring at his hands. "I mean, like, obviously the-the Germans are in charge now. And I guess the Russians...sort of are? They didn't, like, show me any maps or anything, I think they're trying to keep me in the dark, which makes sense..." He glanced up at Markowicz, who was nodding slowly. "I-I can stay here in Warsaw, though." His mouth was dry and his gaze returned to his hands.

"That's-that's good," Markowicz said, a tremor of uncertainty in his voice.

"Yeah... I mean, I guess. Sort of. There are...conditions."

Markowicz was nodding again, unsurprised, but realized that Feliks couldn't see him and asked what the conditions were.

"Er-not good." Feliks could feel his face growing hot, but he made himself continue. "I'm not supposed to have direct contact with the government-the, the Polish government-or the military, or other nations except, like, the ones who're also in Warsaw. Which I think is mostly just Prussia." He made a face at the thought of Gilbert Beilschmidt being his only company for God-knew-how-long.

Markowicz frowned. "I-I guess you'd probably get in trouble if anyone found out I was here, then."

"Yeah, probably."

"You...you don't seem concerned..."

Feliks considered that for a moment. "I guess I'm not."

"So, you...don't intend to...comply with those conditions?"

"Why would I?"

Markowicz didn't answer.

"I mean, I know I'll, like get in trouble and stuff. But...I don't want to just do nothing. I have to do something, doing nothing isn't an option. It's just not."

Markowicz nodded once, quickly. "I understand...I'm sure some...people...will want to leave Warsaw, run away from... But I'll stay. They can go to London or Paris or wherever, but I'll stay here."

Feliks glanced up at him. "You seem like you have a list of those people in mind," he said wryly.

A faint flush crept up Markowicz's face. "Bloody politicians," he muttered, and Feliks couldn't help grinning briefly.

"They'll look for you, you know. The Germans."

"They won't find me unarmed," he promised.

Feliks shook his head ever so slightly. "I don't blame anyone for wanting to leave." It was hard to admit that, but if he was truly putting the wellbeing of his people first...

"Cowards." Markowicz was becoming excited, and Feliks paused a moment.

"Dariusz... You don't need to prove your patriotism to me. You've fought in one war, that's really more than enough-"

"We should stay and fight-"

"We won't win."

"-before the Russians can get here-"

"Dariusz-"

"I've fought against them once, I can do it again. _Will_ do it again-"

"Dariusz!"

Markowicz froze, recognizing that Feliks had something to say.

"Dariusz, you're not going to like me much for saying this, but I don't think there're going to be any big battles or anything. No, don't-we're outnumbered. And while numbers don't always determine a war... We've got Germany to the west and Russia to the east. Outnumbered and surrounded, and Germany has better technology than we could ever hope to use."

"We can't give up!"

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying it won't be any big battles. No outright war. This is going to need to be more subtle.

"You're right about me getting in trouble, first of all, so it's not like we can just meet in the open to plan anything or-well.

"Moreover, honestly, I-I put the safety of civilians over anything else, alright? It's awful that we're in this situation, but I want as little innocent blood shed as possible." He realized he sounded like he was giving orders or something-well, he _was_, in a manner of speaking, but it was enough for him to pause and take a deep breath.

Markowicz didn't look very happy, but he bowed his head. "I'm still going to stay."

"I-I appreciate that. Honestly."

"No big battles, huh?" Markowicz frowned at the wall, bemused. "I suppose we could use guerrilla tactics..."

Feliks nodded. "Carefully, though." _I'm turning into Toris, all this erring on the side of caution nonsense_.

"Of course. And I-I'm sorry about not thinking about civilians. You're right, their safety is paramount."

Feliks nodded again, with more discomfort. He'd known Markowicz for years and, while he occasionally threatened to become a personal friend, he had the annoying habit of deifying him. _No different from most people, I guess. But I still wouldn't mind someone to_ really _talk to_.

"What do you think Prussia will do?"

"In general? I don't know. I'm not even completely sure he is staying here, it's just a guess. Although, he said he'd be back sometime today to go over the-the new laws and stuff." He'd forgotten about that until then, and he couldn't help feeling a little nauseous at the thought.

Markowicz sat upright. "Did he say what time?"

"No, I don't think so-oh. Yeah, um-" He realized how it would look if Beilschmidt found Markowicz sitting in his kitchen.

"I should probably-"

"Yeah-yeah, follow me," Feliks stood, and Markowicz copied him, turning automatically back toward the front door before seeing that Feliks wasn't headed in the same direction; he followed him down a different hallway to a small room.

Feliks was already inside, rolling the corner of a faded red rug up, but Markowicz lingered in the doorway, taking in the icons and statues of various saints, the crucifix illuminated by the single window opposite of it. Feliks coughed, and Markowicz started.

"So, um, yeah," Feliks said. "There's a, uh. A secret passage."

That was when Markowicz noticed the trap door. His surprise must have been obvious, because Feliks grinned and said, "It's an old house. There're a lot of secrets."

Markowicz had to laugh at that. He'd completely underestimated Feliks's ability to cause mischief.

**_December 1939_**

Snow drifted from gray clouds to land briefly on a gray city before melting away, leaving the pavement damp and the air cold. It was eerily quiet in Feliks's neighborhood, and Gilbert didn't fail to notice that he was the only person out and about.

He took a deep breath before knocking on Poland's door, preparing himself for the conversation—argument—he was about to have.

Feliks answered immediately, opening the door just enough to see that it was Gil before shutting it in his face.

Gil sighed and rolled his eyes before entering uninvited. He'd been hoping that Łukasiewicz's house would be warm, but was bitterly disappointed; he hugged himself, trying too keep from shivering. It was dark, too; Łukasiewicz, for some reason, had most of the curtains closed and had not turned any electric lights on or lit any candles.

Łukasiewicz glared at him from down the hall, near the kitchen doorway. "If you make a mess, you can clean it up."

"What! It's your house!"

"Your mess," Feliks replied coolly, turning into the kitchen. Gil followed without hesitation or care for any tracked-in slush.

"Why's it so cold in here?" he asked.

"'Cause it's cold outside," the blond answered indifferently, busying himself at the sink, filling a kettle with water. Gil leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed.

"Oh, I had no idea."

"What do you want?" Łukasiewicz asked stiffly.

"Why're you so pissed off already?"

"'Cause you're here."

Gil scoffed. "Well, anyway. Guess I might as well tell you, get it over with. You're under house arrest."

The full kettle fell loudly in the sink; Gil would have loved to see the look on his face, but his back remained to him.

"I'm _what_?"

Łukasiewicz was rarely quiet, especially when he was angry, and Gil couldn't help but to feel a little nervous. "Yeah," he said. "Wagner's orders."

Łukasiewicz muttered what Gil assumed was a string of colorful insults directed at him and the general who had personally decided to take charge of making sure he complied with rules he had no desire to comply with.

Gil waited for him to finish before saying, "It's the only way he's letting you stay here in Warsaw. Personally, I don't see the point in you staying—mind you, part of me's saying that 'cause then you'd have to live with Edelstein and you're pretty great at pissing him off, but still."

He was shaking his head. "No, no, why—"

"'Cause he doesn't trust you, or like you, or—"

"Fuck off."

"Nah. Oh, one more thing—"

"What else could there _possibly_—?"

"Guess who's in charge of making sure you stay in your house."

"So help me _God_, Beilschmidt—"

"_Me_."

"House arrest!" Markowicz cried indignantly, pacing the cramped room under Feliks's kitchen.

"Sh!" Feliks had felt nauseous since that morning, but Markowicz's anger only added to the feeling—the last thing Feliks wanted was for him to do something stupid, but he didn't seem to be in a state of mind for making rational decisions.

The lone candle cast dramatic shadows on Markowicz, making him seem gaunt and crazed; Feliks was wringing his hands, hoping Markowicz didn't notice.

"You weren't caught for breaking any of their damn laws—"

"No. But General Wagner doesn't trust me."_ He's not wrong, either, but that only makes it more annoying._

"To hell with Wagner!"

"Dariusz! Keep your voice down, please!"

Markowicz took a deep breath, stopping and running his fingers through his hair. "Alright. Alright, fine. It's just another setback, another pain in the ass. We can still work around it. I mean, this room exists. Tunnels under the city—they exist. We can work around this."

"Yeah..."

Markowicz was nodding, probably coming up with various ways to work around the newest setback. Feliks was frowning, not quite sure how to put what he was thinking into words.

"I think—I think maybe I'll see if I can... talk to Wagner. Maybe convince him to...y'know. Change his mind, or whatever," Feliks said quietly after a moment.

Markowicz continued nodding. "Yes, I think that's a good idea. Maybe he will change his mind. Yeah. You should talk to him. Just in case."

_I was afraid you'd say that_. Feliks had talked to Wagner twice before, and both times had been more of listening to the general give a monologue than actual conversations. The thought of going willingly to him to talk did not aid his nausea at all.

Wagner raised his eyebrows when he saw Feliks and Beilschmidt on the other side of the door of his small office of sorts. Feliks could only guess at the building's original use, but it had been effectively turned into a Frankenstein's monster of military headquarters and private apartments-for officers only, he was sure. The general was clearly in his late thirties or early forties with hair a shade or two darker than Feliks's and blue eyes a shade or two darker than Markowicz's; Feliks wondered if he was a veteran of the Great War, though, he realized suddenly, he'd have been awfully young then if that were the case. He wasn't especially large, either in height or obvious muscles, but he was taller than Beilschmidt and even the most average of men was going to be significantly larger than Feliks. Feliks told himself that he was only nervous because of his shyness, but there certainly was no denying that Wagner held significant power over the city as a whole-let alone Feliks.

"_Er will dir sprechen_," Beilschmidt said dryly in explanation before pushing himself and Feliks past Wagner. He'd been against the meeting, only very reluctantly giving in when Feliks had promised to find his way to Wagner with or without his help.

"Won't you sit, too?" the general asked, and Beilschmidt's face froze. Still, he nodded and sat in the chair next to Feliks obediently. Wagner sat on the other side of the desk and leaned back in his chair. "You wanted to speak with me?" he asked Feliks genially in horribly accented Polish.

Feliks nodded and spent the next ten minutes making a complete fool of himself as he stumbled over his argument. His stammering only grew worse as he went on, but Wagner never moved, never took his eyes off him.

"I see," he said simply when Feliks was finished. The Pole blushed slightly, but Wagner seemed to be focused on lighting a cigarette. He inhaled sharply and exhaled; Feliks wrinkled his nose slightly at the smell. "You want to be allowed a rather generous amount of freedom, given the circumstances," Wagner said, switching to German.

"Cir—circumstances?" Feliks stammered in the same language. "I—I haven't broken—broken any laws or anything."

"No... Though, I confess, your cooperation was unexpected. Appreciated, certainly, but unexpected. Certain people seemed to think you were a troublemaker." Wagner was smiling, but there was a note of condescension in his voice that, paired with his cold, uncompromising eyes, set him on edge.

Wagner sighed, as though he were pained by the decision he had to make, and took another drag from his cigarette. "You haven't broken any laws, no, but, well—how shall I put this? You are, technically speaking, a prisoner of war. A very important one, of course, no one's denying that. But that only makes keeping you under control that much more important. See, we're not the only ones watching you. The Russians are like to jump at any chance of weakness, and you understand that we can't allow that. What if you were to side with them—"

Feliks actually laughed at that, and Wagner shrugged.

"A small risk, naturally. Of more pressing concern is that they might see us letting you do, well, whatever you want. That, of course, is entirely too likely to cause problems."

Feliks was visibly struggling to think of a rebuttal, and failing miserably.

"In short, you have two options: stay in Warsaw, under house arrest, or be sent somewhere else. Whichever you choose, you'll be out of our way."

Feliks bowed his head, frowning at his hands, clasped in his lap to keep them from shaking. "I—I'll stay," he muttered after a minute.

Wagner nodded, unsurprised. "I'm glad that's settled. _Herr_ Beilschmidt, if you would kindly escort him back to his house..."

Beilschmidt nodded and stood; Feliks hesitated, but quietly followed.

**_Translations_**

Er will dir sprechen — He wants to speak [with] you.


	2. Ultimatums

**_"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul." -Pablo Neruda_**

**_Moscow_**

**_October 1939_**

_Feliks Łukasiewicz was, without doubt, the biggest asshole Toris had ever had the misfortune of knowing._

_The letter, dated as 17 March 1938, sat on his desk, its demands, written in an unusually formal tone, face up, though Toris wasn't reading them. He'd already been through it once, and that had been one too many times. _

_He hadn't moved in over an hour, not since his conversation with Eduard and Raivis. _

_It was easy enough for them to suggest giving in to Poland's demands, he thought, when they weren't the ones losing anything._

_True, the only thing he would lose was his pride, but that didn't ease the sting at all._

_Toris closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaned back._

_"He'll never leave you alone," Raivis had pointed out. "You know how he is when he wants something."_

Yes, but maybe just this once-

_Eduard's voice cut into his thoughts. "Technically, he does have a more legitimate claim to Vilnius than you do-don't look at me like that, you're the only one pretending otherwise," he'd said coolly. "And, all other things aside, neither of you can afford another war with each other. You're surrounded by enemies, and the way Germany's been acting..." He'd shrugged. "Look, I'm not saying I don't sympathize with your side of the argument. But there's no need to make yourself easier prey for Germany and Russia."_

_Toris sighed; he'd been avoiding the truth for long enough, and Eduard was right, he couldn't afford another war. _

_But the truth still hurt._

_Feliks was kicking his legs back and forth under the table, waiting for the final meeting to be over; Toris couldn't see, of course, but he _knew_, just as he knew Feliks had stopped listening a long time ago._

And why should he listen? He got everything he wanted.

_Toris hadn't said one word to Feliks throughout the meetings._

_People were standing up and beginning to leave; Feliks pushed his chair back a little too quickly and nearly fell before regaining his balance, standing and making his way over to where Toris was standing._

_"Liet," he said quietly, touching Toris' arm._

_Toris frowned down at him, not quite too tired to be angry._

_"Come for a walk with me," Feliks said, tugging at his arm until he sighed and started walking. _

_He led Toris outside to find the evening was cool, even for March; Feliks reached out to take Toris's hand; Toris didn't respond, but stared expressionlessly ahead without really seeing anything. Feliks sighed and tried wrapping his arm around Toris's waist only to have Toris push him away and walk faster._

_Feliks watched him for a moment before realizing he was neither stopping nor slowing down. He ran after him, determined to talk to him. "Liet! Liet!" he called before Toris stopped abruptly a few feet in front of him. He inched forward..._

_"What do you want?" Toris asked harshly._

_"I-I just...wanted to talk to you. Since it's...been a while...and all..."_

_Toris didn't respond._

_"Please?"_

_"Fine."_

_Feliks took his hand again. "Let's go somewhere more private," he murmured._

_Toris bowed his head slightly, letting Feliks lead him through the darkening streets to a small park before he pulled him over to a bench and sat down._

_Toris sighed again before sitting as far away from him as he could without falling off the bench. Feliks scowled at him, scooching over to Toris's side of the bench and leaning his head on his shoulder._

_"I missed you," he whispered. "Really, I did. And I-I understand if you're still really pissed at me after... after everything. But I still missed you."_

_"You're right; I am still pissed at you," Toris said after a moment. "I thought I could trust you, and I was wrong."_

_Feliks flinched. "I'm sorry," was all he could say._

_Toris shook his head, and the two lapsed into an uncomfortable silence._

_Feliks leaned back and watched the sky until Toris spoke again._

_"Poland, things between us aren't going to be like they used to be, no matter how hard you try."_

_Frowning, Feliks said, "Maybe they'll be better."_

_"How?"_

_"I dunno. But stop being so convinced that only bad stuff is going to happen. It makes you bad at appreciating the good stuff that's happening now."_

_Toris glanced down at him. "I'm being realistic."_

_"No. You're being depressing."_

_"I am not."_

_"You totally are."_

_Toris shook his head stubbornly, and Feliks sighed, leaning against him again._

_"I just wanted to talk," he said. "I really did miss you. Even if you didn't miss me."_

_"I-I never said I didn't miss you," muttered Toris. "Just... some days more than others."_

_Feliks laughed a bit at that. "How's Russia been treating you?"_

_"He's fine, Feliks."_

_"Is he? He isn't_ _bullying you too much or anything?"_

_"No. Not since-he's fine." Toris was blushing, not sure if he wanted to tell Feliks about his relationship with Ivan._

_"You sure?"_

_"Yes."_

_"And America, when you_ _lived with him. How was he?"_

_"He was very nice."_

_"You haven't_ _been working too hard, have you?"_

_"No more than usual. Why?"_

_"If I don't worry about how you're doing, who else will? Lord knows you won't. Not that you_ _need anything else to stress about. You stress too much, Liet, did you know that?"_

_"I do not. I'm doing fine."_

_"Then don't act so touchy," Feliks huffed. "I just wanted to know how you were doing."_

_"I'm not touchy," he mumbled._

_"Mm-hm. Touchy, touchy, touchy. Hey, did you pull your hair back yourself?"_

_"I-what's that go to do with anything! Stop that," he said, pushing Feliks' hand away as he tried to play with Toris' loose hair._

_"Nothing, but it always_ _looks messier when you do it yourself. You can't pull as much of it back. But it looks cute, so it's alright," Feliks said, still trying to play with Toris' hair._

_Toris grabbed his hand. "My hair is fine."_

_"See what I meant about touchy?"_

_Toris let go of him and crossed his arms, glowering silently into the darkness._

_With a quiet sigh, Feliks brushed Toris' hair behind his ear. "I never stopped loving you, you know," he murmured. "Never. Not even after... well, a lot of stuff."_

_Toris turned back to him, brought out of his anger by surprise. "You... you didn't?"_

_"No." He laughed nervously. "I guess it'd take more than a war to make me stop loving you."_

_"I-I guess." Toris frowned, wondering when he'd stopped thinking of Feliks romantically. It had been before the war, but he'd never thought much of it; it was just something that had happened gradually, aided by decades of no communication._

_"But-but I don't wanna go years without_ _talking to you again. Even if you're pissed at me. I was just so... so _lonely_, Liet, I didn't have anyone else to talk to. I mean, you at least had Estonia and Latvia, and Ukraine I guess, and Russia probably_ _is keeping you busy, but..."_

_"You've had things to do, Feliks, you just put off doing them."_

_Feliks laughed. "Yeah, I do. But it's not the same, y'know?"_

_Toris nodded. _

_"So... will you write? Or call? Not_ _every day, unless you want to."_

_"I... I don't know." _

_"I-I'm not asking this as Poland to Lithuania," Feliks said. "I'm asking as Feliks to Toris."_

_Toris could only stare at him, at a loss for words. After everything, he still wanted-_

_"Please?"_

_Toris glanced down, his face hot. "Ah, Feliks, things are complicated with us." He wasn't entirely sure who he was including in the "us," but somehow, complications applied to every combination._

_"I know," Feliks muttered dejectedly, slowly swinging his legs back and forth. _

_Toris sighed, glancing over at the blond. "I'll-I'll try, I guess."_

_"You will?" Feliks looked up at him, a smile immediately returning to his face. _

_"Ah-no promises, though."_

_Feliks hugged him with enough force to knock both of them off the bench; Toris struggled to sit up, trying to push Feliks off of him, but the blond was still too enthusiastic to be dissuaded. "I could kiss you, Liet-"_

_"Don't-"_

_He leaned forward, pushing Toris to the ground, and kissed his forehead. Toris stared at the blond as he sat up; Feliks tried clumsily to push his hair back, but it kept falling in his face until he gave up, deciding instead to caress Toris's face._

_"I'll wait," Feliks said hoarsely, his hand slowly moving down to Toris' neck. "I'll wait to kiss you, until you're not pissed at me anymore. However long that takes," he finished in a whisper, his hand just above Toris' heart._

_Gently, Toris took his hand and pushed it away, sitting up and hugging Feliks._

_"You are my closest friend," he said, resting his head on Feliks' shoulder._

_Feliks buried his face in Toris' neck. "I love you."_

_Toris sighed softly, running his hand up and down Feliks' back. He couldn't tell him the truth about anything, not now; he wanted Feliks to be happy, and the truth would ruin that. Someday, though. He couldn't keep it from him forever. _

_"Hey, Liet?" Feliks murmured after a few minutes._

_"Hm?"_

_"I know that it's a lot to ask, especially since we just now_ _made up, but..."_

_Toris sighed. "What do you want?"_

_"I just-if Russia were up to something-you know what I mean?"_

_"Mm-hm."_

_"Would you-would you_ _let me know? Just_ _in case, y'know?"_

_Toris frowned and didn't answer._

_"Please?" Feliks asked, pushing himself away from Toris slightly._

_"I-I'll consider it, I guess-"_

_Feliks hugged him again. "Thank you."_

_Toris rolled his eyes, though Feliks couldn't see. "I am still pissed at you, you know."_

_"You've never been able to hold a grudge for too long."_

_"Mm." _

_Feliks pulled Toris closer..._

"Litva."

Ivan's voice broke through the dream, and Toris woke to find that he'd fallen asleep at his desk again. He sat up, his arm stiff after being bent under his head for hours, and glanced up at Ivan. He couldn't make out the expression on his face, so he stayed quiet, trying not to think about how behind he was getting in his work.

"Come to bed with me," Ivan ordered after a moment; Toris rose obediently, turned off the light, and followed him through the moonlit hallways to his bedroom.

Toris was tired enough to sleep in his clothes, but he turned his back to Ivan so he could change.

"Take your shirt off," Ivan said after a moment; Toris blinked rapidly as Ivan turned the light on and pulled his sweater off, hesitating before leaving it carelessly on the floor. He moved to unbutton the shirt he had been wearing under it, but Ivan shook his head. "Just the sweater is fine."

Toris was tempted to take the shirt off anyway, to show Ivan that he didn't like being pushed around, but exhaustion and caution convinced him to obey.

Ivan walked across the room to him, his face still unreadable as he pushed Toris's hair behind his ears.

"Litva, I-what is your relationship with Poland, exactly?"

Toris frowned. "I-I don't really know. I...I guess we're friends."

Ivan nodded slowly. "Does he feel that way? I mean...the two of you weren't talking for the longest time..."

"Hm...no, he still... He still has, er, romantic feelings. He said so the last time we talked."

"And was that before or after you warned him about my plans with Germany?"

"Well, that _was _the last time we tal-I mean-" _Dammit. I thought he was acting weird because he was tired._

"You know," Ivan said lightly after a moment of watching Toris quietly panic, "I think I've changed my mind. Take off that shirt, too."

Automatically, Toris undid the first button before he decided he was angry. "No," he said. "I don't want to."

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall asking if you wanted to or not."

Toris didn't answer, and Ivan began to unbutton his shirt.

"_Stop_," Toris said, trying to push Ivan's hands away, but Ivan grabbed his hands tightly and gave him a look that very clearly said, "Don't mess with me tonight." Toris glared off to the side and let him unbutton the shirt.

"I think," Ivan murmured, slipping the shirt off of Toris's arms, "that the most _annoying_ part about this situation is that..." He tossed the shirt on top of the sweater before continuing, running his hand up and down Toris's chest until he landed on the small scar just above his heart as he said, "You are the person I trust with, well, everything. And if _you _can't keep my secrets-my _very important_ secrets-well, what am I supposed to do about that?

"I'm going to be gone quite a bit, Litva, I need someone to run things for me. Natasha's going to be busy, too, and, frankly, everyone else living here is awful at handling paperwork and such. Everyone but you. But if you aren't going to keep your mouth shut..."

Toris scowled at him. "It-it won't happen again."

"How can I believe you?"

He could feel his face growing hot. "Well-it's not like he listened the first time. What else do I have to warn him about, anyway? It's all said and done." _For better or for worse._

"Hm..." Ivan made a point of brushing his fingertip over the scar and Toris pushed his hand away.

"_That _doesn't have anything to do with it, it happened twenty years ago-"

"Quite a bit has changed over the past twenty years, Litva. Though Poland seems to have found himself in the same situation he was."

"Besides, how many scars do I have from _you_?"

Ivan's slap stung; Toris didn't move, though he was furious by now. _I'm not his toy, I'm not-_

"I think," Ivan said softly after a minute, "that it's past time the two of us go to bed."

Toris didn't disagree.


	3. Balance

**_"My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them." -Jack Kerouac_**

**_Moscow_**

**_February 1940_**

Ivan was kissing Toris wherever he could while they were both lying on their side, facing each other, not in any particular hurry to do anything else. Slowly, he ran his fingertips down Toris's back, making him shiver; he smiled before focusing on kissing his favorite spot just under Toris's jaw, pulling away only when he was sure he'd left a mark. He sighed, not quite contentedly, as he traced the red mark and wondered how to break the silence.

Toris offered no conversation, as usual, but Ivan was starting to feel uncomfortable, wondering if he'd done something wrong. The mark on his neck was already fading, as usual, and Ivan ran his fingers through Toris's hair as he waited for words to come to him.

One thought did occur to him, out of nowhere, but he shoved it away. There were some things-a _lot _of things-the two never talked about, and Poland was one of them. Ivan had purposely avoided the subject since September, though he had apologized for hitting Toris and returned Vilnius to him (at least, temporarily, but Ivan wasn't in the mood for thinking about long term plans at the moment). Toris hadn't had much of a response to either, which didn't really surprise Ivan. Poland had always been a touchy subject, and Ivan didn't like fighting with Toris. Lithuania may have been quick to forgive, but he didn't _forget_, and Ivan knew there wasn't much real trust in their relationship. It was a mutual hesitancy, a delicate dance made complicated by politics and long memories: giving in first meant submission to the other, but neither wanted to jump in at the same time, either, for fear the other might back out at the last second. The only time the two were completely open with each other was when they were both drunk, which did not happen often. It was on one of these rare occurrences, decades ago, that Toris had confessed that he had started sleeping with Ivan because he'd been pissed at Poland and wanted to get back at him somehow, and another occasion that Toris had said that he thought he loved Ivan.

Toris had never given any sign of remembering either conversation, and Ivan had refrained from bringing either up.

"What's wrong?" Toris asked softly, running his fingers through Ivan's hair, dragging him back to the present.

"I was just thinking about some news I'd heard about Poland," he said before he could stop himself. He silently cursed himself when he felt Toris tense, and the silence that had been almost comfortable earlier became unbearably tense.

After a moment, Toris stiffly said, "We should change the sheets before we go to bed."

Ivan didn't move, not sure if Toris didn't want to hear the news about Poland or if he just didn't want to hear it from _him_. "It's not... particularly _bad _news," he said eventually. That was stretching it, but it made Toris hesitate.

"Oh?" he said awkwardly.

"No... well. It would kinda depend on your definition of 'bad,' I guess. But apparently he's, ah, under house arrest. Has been actually," he continued as Toris absorbed the news, "for a few months. I'm annoyed I'm only just now finding out about it, of course, but-"

"What did he do?" Toris asked quietly.

"Mm... I _believe _it was does as a... _precaution_. But the Germans aren't saying anything, so I don't know for sure. If it's not that, then it's something they want to keep quiet, and, well, it took my friends long enough to find _that _out, so."

Toris didn't say anything, and Ivan wondered if something else was bothering him. He'd have found out about Poland sooner or later, since he was in charge of all of Ivan's paperwork when he was gone, but Ivan had assumed he'd rather hear from him. Perhaps he'd been wrong-Toris _had_ felt more distant lately. Or maybe he was just paranoid and Toris simply didn't know how to respond to the news of his former lover.

Ivan woke when Toris did, though far more reluctantly; he stretched and rolled over to where Toris had been sleeping before his warmth vanished completely. Lying on his side, he watched silently as the other nation dressed in the gray predawn light, silhouetted faintly against the heavy curtains. He had finished before he noticed that Ivan was watching him; Ivan grinned to himself, not needing to see Toris to know that he was blushing. "C'mere," he mumbled, lazily patting the mattress next to him.

Toris sighed, undoubtedly thinking about work that needed to be done, but sat on the edge of the bed anyway, until Ivan wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him into an awkward bear hug. He struggled to sit back up, but Ivan only hugged him tighter and kissed him until he couldn't breathe; he rolled onto his back, laughing breathlessly as he brushed Toris's now messy hair out of his face. "Ah, Litva, you're too serious."

"I am _not_," he muttered, and Ivan laughed again.

"Yes, you are. But it's okay. I need _someone _to worry, I guess."

Toris made a face at that; Ivan sat up and hugged him, kissing the top of his head affectionately. "I don't want to leave again," he whispered. "It's always so cold without you, Litva."

Though he didn't say anything, Toris ran his fingers up and down his bare back reassuringly.

Ivan didn't want to let him go-he never did-but his room was slowly growing lighter as the sun crept in under the door and through the cracks in the curtains. Toris, as always, was the one who pulled back first, though he kissed Ivan's forehead before getting up.

It was Ivan's turn to sigh; he stretched again, wincing-the cold caused some of his old scars to hurt-before forcing himself to leave the comfort of his bed. He winced again at the cold floor under his feet, but managed to dress quickly. Toris was waiting for him by the door; Ivan walked over to him, kissing him deeply-one last moment of intimacy before facing the rest of the day.

**_Warsaw_**

Olga Nowakowa sat in her front parlor like a queen in her throne room; her legs were crossed, her chin resting elegantly on her hand. Her deep blue eyes were half-closed in boredom, cherry-colored lips not _quite _frowning and blonde curls perfectly placed no matter how she sat. Grobinsky tried not to show intimidation, but Nowakowa was far more powerful than he'd ever be-powerful enough that her clothes were _French_-and he was certainly not without his connections. They had met before, but in Moscow-once in Leningrad-never in _her _territory. Used to a military uniform and not casual clothes, he had to refrain from fidgeting, though his hands were fists in his lap. A large, very expensive coffee table sat between them, and he had to admit that the chair he was sitting in, while far too gaudy for his taste, was comfortable.

"What I am trying to understand," she said in Russian-if Grobinsky hadn't known any better, he'd have thought she was a native speaker; her accent, like everything else about her, was flawless-"is why Kliment Ivanovitch would send _you _for such a delicate operation."

"My orders are to root out the resistance," he replied smoothly, keenly aware that his light brown hair was disheveled.

"You're a soldier, Ilya Semyonavich, not a spy."

"Clearly Kliment Ivanovitch thinks differently."

Her eyes narrowed. "Perhaps. Or perhaps he wanted you out of his way."

Grobinsky forced himself not to react to that. "I'm only following orders."

"What a good little soldier. If my position is compromised because of you-"

"It won't be."

"If it _is_," she continued icily, eyes narrow, "Kliment Ivanovitch will no doubt be happy to show you who he _really_ values."

"I know all about your relationship with Kliment Ivanovitch," Grobinsky snapped, unable to restrain himself. "And I know about your _plans_ for General Wagner."

She shrugged, nonchalant, as she shifted in her chair so she was sitting upright. Grobinsky couldn't help but notice that her perfectly manicured nails were painted the same color red as her lips. "General Wagner is a married man, but I'm sure he'll be lonely." A slight smirk graced her face and Grobinsky glared at her, his hazel eyes flashing.

"I'm sure you're lonely as well, after your husband's tragic accident."

The smirk grew. "Oh, yes. Poor Florian. The fool never learned from his mistakes. Pity, really."

"You know, there's a species of spider where the female kills the male after they mate."

Her smirk was a full grin now. "Yes. Black widows, I believe they're called. They're also known for being rather venomous."

"So, what? You're just going to play puppet master while I just sit here and do nothing?" His face was hot, and he sat on the edge of the chair, leaning forward as though he were going to jump over the coffee table and onto Nowakowa, but she didn't flinch.

"Oh, no, you won't be doing nothing. Quite the opposite. But, see, I know who some of the resistance leaders are, and people would notice if an _accident_ happened to _them_. But rumors are a powerful weapon, Ilya Semyonavich, and I know how to use them. As far as Wagner knows, I know so much about people from gossip. Well, I can't say he's wrong, but he also thinks I'm just some airheaded socialite who happens to find him attractive." She laughed, and Grobinsky shivered. He'd spent a winter in Siberia once, as a prison guard, but the edge of civilization had felt warm compared to that laugh. "So, yes, I'll be pulling at his strings, but gently, gently. He won't have any idea who's really in charge." There was a gleam in her eye that made Grobinsky want to run all the way home to Moscow, but he sat frozen in his chair. "Not til it's too late. Not til I've used him as much as I possibly can. Then and only then, my dear Ilya Semyonavich, will I bite his head off."

Grobinsky had never liked Nowakowa; there were too many rumors about her, and she'd always come across as too aristocratic for his taste, but he'd never been truly afraid her until then.

"Not everyone in Warsaw trusts you," he managed to say after a moment.

"No," she mused. "I was too much of an amateur during the war against the Bolsheviks. But I've learned since then, and there's no _evidence_, anyway."

"I was under the impression that Łukasiewicz was one of the people who most suspected you-"

Nowakowa scoffed. "Łukasiewicz is under house arrest, and not through any suggestion of mine. Even Wagner isn't so foolish as to trust him. Besides, like I said, there's no evidence. Only rumors."

"You _just _said that rumors are powerful weapons."

"Hm. Yes. Rumors can uncover the truth, or they can hide it. As you're undoubtedly aware, there are a great many rumors about me, and most of them contradict each other. Besides, I hardly live the lifestyle of a communist, do I?"

So she knew about that gossip, too. "A very luxurious cover," he mumbled, though he had to admire the genius of it.

"It's certainly not without its benefits. Especially during a war, when everyone else must suffer."

"I seem to recall that being the imperial philosophy as well."

Her eyes narrowed, and Grobinsky wondered if he'd gone too far. "I am certainly no lover of the Empire's corruption, Grobinsky." Her lips had curled back slightly. "I supported the Bolsheviks long before you did."

"A wonder Stalin hasn't properly thanked you for your service," Grobinsky retorted.

She knew what he meant by that. "Because unlike most of Lenin's friends, I kept myself useful. There're only so many eyes in Warsaw, and I can _very _easily switch to supporting whichever government is currently in charge."

"If the Germans attack us, as I'm sure they want to-or even if we attack them first-and they win, where would that leave you, then?"

"Having to speak that barbaric language for the rest of my life, undoubtedly. But they won't win. The numbers are on our side."

Grobinsky leaned back in his chair, not entirely placated by her confidence. Of all the rumors he'd heard of Olga Nowakowa, he'd never heard that she was an optimist.


	4. Tension

**_"How anxiously I yearned for those I had forsaken." -Fyodor Dostoyevsky_**

**_Warsaw_**

**_30 July 1940_**

There were days when Feliks missed Toris so badly he could feel a physical ache in chest, an emptiness that couldn't be filled no matter what he did. Those days had happened more often, once, but they would still sneak up on him, leaving him breathless with his loneliness.

There was a certain tremble in Markowicz's voice, and, for once, Feliks did not think it was from anger.

_The world is truly coming to be conquered by Germany and Russia, God help us all._

Feliks pinched the bridge of his nose and didn't speak for several minutes.

"It's out of our control," he said softly at last. Markowicz frowned at him in silence, and Feliks wondered what he was thinking. _That's out of my control, too_. "...Besides, it—it doesn't really change much about our situation, does it?" _God help me for being so selfish. _"We already knew the Russians were working with the Germans, they're—they're just a bit closer is all."

"The international impact—"

"No one is coming to save us, and no one is going to come and save Lithuania."

"Well, yes, but—"

"We don't have any friends in the east, and no one in the west cares," Feliks snapped, feeling more miserable than he had in a long time.

Markowicz didn't seem able to respond; he tried several times but it wasn't long before Feliks found himself alone again.

It always came down to that.

Hours passed; the light faded; Feliks couldn't find it in himself to move. He was drowning again, and losing the energy needed to swim every day. It was so _exhausting_ to keep his head above the waves, but there was some incomprehensible instinct that kept him afloat, if only barely. There was something in him that kept him from totally giving up—except for today. Today he sat at his kitchen table, immobile, a statue frozen with the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was almost completely dark in the room when he heard his front door flung open and then slammed shut; familiar footsteps made heavy by boots wandered hesitantly, briefly, searching, before making their way toward the kitchen.

Feliks could make out the silhouette of Beilschmidt, a pale shadow amongst other shadows, several seconds before Beilschmidt saw him—saw him and _jumped_, though he recovered quickly enough.

"Were you trying to scare me?" he asked, finding the nearest light and turning it on. Feliks didn't react. "'Cause it totally didn't work. You can't catch me off-gua—hey, what's with that face?"

Feliks only frowned, not in the mood to deal with him.

"Oh, c'mon, grumpy, what's wrong? Did you finally hear the news about your boyfriend or something?"

A ghostly flame of anger managed to ignite. "What do you mean _finally_?" he asked harshly, his voice rough with unintended emotion.

Beilschmidt didn't miss a beat. "Well, I mean, it's old news, isn't it? Not _that_ old, I guess, like...a week or something. It doesn't matter, I've known since—"

"You knew?" The accusation hung heavy in the air between them.

"Yeah," Beilschmidt answered after a stiff pause. "Yeah, I did, but, honestly, what did you expect? Did you really think he'd be left alone amongst all this?"

The ghost had grown into a raging fire, and Feliks was trembling with fury. "You _knew_," he repeated, barely audible.

Beilschmidt hardly seemed to realize that anything was wrong. "It's not like anything has really changed—for him, I mean," he said, leaning nonchalantly against the doorway. "I mean, like, he's been living with Braginsky, hasn't he? Sure, things'll be a lot worse for his people, but, really, did he honestly expect to stay neutral in this situation? He'd have to be insane or something. Well, he's spent so much time with Braginsky I guess I couldn't blame him for that, but still."

"You—you—" He couldn't think of a word bad enough.

"I what?" Beilschmidt asked, one eyebrow raised.

"You've got a lot of nerve showing up here, rubbing everything in my face—"

"Do I? Last I checked I have_ far_ more authority than _you_." The constant smirk on his face transformed into a sneer, and Feliks's lips curled back slightly in disgust.

"You heartless _bastard_, you think you're so great and you're not, so just. Shut. _Up_. Go away."

"Mmm... No. I don't think so. Did I touch a nerve? Been a long time since I've done that." The words were playful but the tone was just short of cruel.

Feliks finally stood, stiff and sore after a day spent not moving. He was shorter than Beilschmidt, but he tried to push that out of his head as he approached the other nation. "If you think for one second that I won't—that I won't _fight_ you—"

"Oh? I'd like to see that. Bet you're too cowardly, though—"

Feliks shoved him, nearly pushing him onto the ground, but centuries of combat made throwing Beilschmidt off balance nearly impossible, and he quickly righted himself and grabbed Feliks's shirt collar.

"I _told_ Wagner not to trust you," he said quietly, yanking the blond closer to him. "I _told_ him there was no way in hell your staying in Warsaw would end well, but the idiot wouldn't listen. Well, _I _know to keep an eye on you, if no one else does." He pulled Feliks even closer as he tried to push away, glaring up at him, his hands too shaky to effectively pry Beilschmidt's hands off of his shirt.

"If you expect, for one minute, for me to—to just sit back while my people are being _murdered_—"

"What the hell d'you think I tried telling Wagner, then? Oh, no, you can't trust Łukasiewicz, he doesn't like dogs? Is that it?"

Feliks managed to land a decent kick on his shin, but he remained unfazed, twisting his shirt collar tighter and lifting him up enough that only his toes were on the ground.

"Oh, fuck off," He snapped, his voice finally growing louder. "Why do you keep doing shit like this, anyway?"

"Why?" Beilschmidt laughed, but it was a hollow laugh, almost bitter. "Isn't this the way it's supposed to be? The two of us, immortal enemies, always fighting? I always win, of course—"

"That's not true and you know it—"

"But that's not really the point, is it? We're something greater, you and I. We represent something greater—which is why, when I win, once and for all—and I really mean that—it'll be one of the most important things that's ever happened. Ever."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean—once and for all? Are you going to try and kill me or something?" Feliks retorted with a sneer.

Beilschmidt grinned, looking half a demon in the darkness. "If that's what it takes."

"I'm _immortal,_ you son of a bitch."

"I know, idiot. I am, too. And-and way more important than _you_."

"If you're so important why are you here instead of with your brother?"

Beilschmidt wavered for a brief moment before answering. "Well, you're here, aren't you? _Someone_ competent needs to keep an eye on you—or take further action, if necessary." The smirk was back.

"_You. Can't. Kill. Me_," Feliks snarled, shoving his shoulders, catching both of them off guard and nearly sending both of them falling to the ground.

Beilschmidt glowered at him when he regained his balance, still holding tightly to his shirt. "Fucking _watch_ me."

Feliks didn't speak, devoting all of his energy to his attempts to free himself—until Beilschmidt spun him and rammed him into the nearest wall. There was a loud _crack_ from his head, and he blinked rapidly, dazed, barely registering that Beilschmidt's face was only inches from his own.

"_Listen_ to me, bastard," Beilschmidt snapped, glaring down at him. "If you keep pulling this shit, I swear, I'll personally see to it that you never set foot on your own land—_if_ you can even call it that—again. Is that understood?"

"You're not my boss," Feliks managed to gasp.

Beilschmidt pulled him away from the wall only to push him against it again before lifting Feliks by his shirt collar so he was at Beilschmidt's eye level. "I might as well be, and the sooner you realize that, the better. It's for your own good."

Feliks kicked his leg and he suddenly flung him down; he landed on his hands and knees, too dazed to react until Beilschmidt said, "I don't even know why you care so much about him anyway. He doesn't care about you, I can guarantee it."

"...That's not true," Feliks said quietly, not quite able to catch his breath. His head was spinning as he confessed, "He warned me, a year ago."

"He—what? How did he even—" Beilschmidt sounded more shocked than anything else.

"He warned me, he does care about me. Maybe—maybe not as much as—as he used to. But he _does_."

"Does Braginsky—"

"Yes," he answered miserably. "Yes, and it's my fault—"

"Ah—well, Braginsky is. Uh. Braginsky. Besides, it's not like you can blame him for being pissed."

"I _don't_ blame him, though."

"I mean, I guess it is kinda your fault. 'Specially since you didn't listen to him."

Feliks didn't have a response to that. He was still shaking, but he didn't think it was from anger—that flame had blown out.

Several minutes passed, Beilschmidt frowning down at him as he tried not to show any emotion, certain that he was failing miserably. "Just—just go away," he stammered at last, not looking up again until Beilschmidt's footsteps disappeared and the front door opened and shut again. Then and only then did Feliks move, sitting on the kitchen floor still, leaning against the wall, his head tilted back as he gave in and began to sob. He cursed Wagner and Braginsky and Beilschmidt and Toris but, most of all, he cursed himself, wishing he could go back in time and change everything and forced to live with the fact that that was impossible.


	5. Possessions

**_"It's probably my job to tell you life isn't fair, but I figure you already know that. So instead, I'll tell you that hope is precious, and you're right not to give up." ― C.J. Redwine_**

**_Moscow_**

**_15 September 1940_**

Toris was finding it hard to focus on his work. Ivan should have been back yesterday, and, while Toris was by no means looking forward to the conversation they were undoubtedly going to have, he would rather not put it off any further.

Ivan had been gone since March, leaving Toris in charge—and alone when he received the news that he had lost his independence. It still stung, thinking about how he had no idea of what had happened, had no part in any sort of official process or negotiation. No, he'd been all the way in Moscow, taking care of Ivan's paperwork and playing secretary, only receiving the news from a brief coded letter from Ivan. The cheery letter had ended with the words, "I hope to see you soon."

Toris had long since burned it.

Now he was sitting in his office, which was small and still stuffy from the lingering heat of summer, waiting. The conversation had been put off for months, and Ivan had made no mention of it in his most recent letter—which, in code, had said nothing more than that he planned to be back on the fourteenth—but Toris meant to bring it up if he didn't. He couldn't let Ivan just get away with it without facing some sort of consequence. Not that Toris could do much, if anything, but he could at least express discontent, right? He kept telling himself he could, at least. He'd had time to form an argument... But as his office grew darker, passing from the golden glow of late afternoon to the deep blues of twilight, he wondered if the conversation would be put off yet again. More importantly, _why _was Ivan late? Surely he had the authority to do what he wanted—to at least go home every few months.

The electric light flickered when he got up to turn it on, eventually settling on a sickly yellow glow that was nonetheless consistent, albeit with a low hum that he quickly filtered out as background noise.

He shifted through the papers on his desk with a sigh. The Russian characters, however familiar they had unfortunately become, registered as little more than random lines and shapes. The handwritten papers were completely indecipherable. Still, no one else was going to work on them...

He wondered if Ivan would bother Raivis and Eduard when he got home, or if he would be the lone subject of torment. It would depend on how long Ivan would be home, he decided. If it would be a brief stay, he'd probably want to spend more time with his sisters than with his servants, though Ivan was too capricious to say for sure. Uzbekistan would want to talk to him, no doubt; Kovalevskaya was discontent with remaining in Moscow, however much Ivan tried convincing her that that was outside of his control. Toris doubted that Ivan would have let her go home even if his government would allow it, but she was implacable, as she had been for as long as Toris had known her. Content to live under Russian rule so long as she could still practice her religion, she nursed quiet resentment for the Soviet government, though not, Toris had noticed, for Ivan himself—except over this one issue.

Toris had stood, ready to go to bed, when Ivan finally opened the door.

"I...apologize for being late," he said. Toris merely frowned at him, taking in his bedraggled appearance. His hair was a mess, and he looked like he'd lost a bit of weight; he was very pale, with dark shadows under his eyes, and his uniform was covered in stains and ripped in various places. _Where the hell was he, and what was he doing?_

Ivan cleared his throat. "Anyway, I, uh, didn't want to wait to see you. As...you might have noticed."

"...It's alright."

"Well, uh. I missed you. A lot."

Toris nodded, his lips pursed. "I...was worried when you weren't home yesterday, and then today..."

"Technically yesterday, I think," Ivan said, lingering awkwardly near the door. "But, um. Thank you. I think? Is that what I should say?"

Toris frowned at him. "Are you alright?"

Ivan sighed deeply. "That's a good question, isn't it?" he muttered, almost to himself. "I'm here. I'm not hurt or anything...I'm still breathing, after everything. Somehow."

_You're immortal, damn you_, Toris thought.

Ivan frowned at him with all the innocence of a child and all the weariness of an old man. "Do you think I'm a good person, Liet?"

Toris was too caught off guard by the nickname to answer immediately; Ivan waited, not moving, as though the fate of the world rested on his answer.

"I...I think you try," Toris finally said softly. It was an honest response, if it didn't really answer the question, but it seemed to please Ivan, who exhaled as though Toris had relieved him of every burden he'd ever had to carry. _Maybe tonight isn't the time..._

"I do try, really," Ivan said, and Toris nodded again, in agreement. "I—come to bed with me, Toris. Please."

It took a great deal of self-control not to sigh, but Toris managed. "Alright," he said, moving without hesitation toward Ivan's open arms.

**_Warsaw_**

**_17 September 1940_**

Gil made his way up to Wagner's office, exhausted after having spent the week discussing military strategies he apparently would not be a part of. He'd been silently hoping that he would be able to convince, well, anyone, to let him leave Warsaw and actually do something productive, but no, he had to stay in the city that apparently had big plans—not that he knew what those plans were, whatever he told Łukasiewicz—well, that was a headache unto itself. He was hoping to get some information out of Wagner, who seemed uncertain of how much authority he actually had over Gil, though Gil didn't doubt that his increasing resentment toward the general was mutual.

Late morning sunlight flooded the entire building, making his head pound—he had no idea how much sleep he'd actually gotten the past week, but he knew it wasn't much. _I'll just talk to Wagner and then go to bed...And maybe deal with Łukasiewicz sometime soon. Maybe._ The two had been on even worse terms than usual since July, and Gil wasn't sure how to fix that—or even if he wanted to.

The pungent smell of cigarette smoke greeted him as he entered Wagner's office without knocking, and the general and a woman Gil had never seen before stared up at him in surprise.

"I was under the impression you wouldn't be back until later tonight," Wagner said, raising an eyebrow.

Gil merely shrugged and sat on his desk—the woman was sitting in the chair he would normally have occupied—before saying, "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend here?"

She smiled up at him and said, "I'm Olga Nowakowa," in surprisingly unaccented German.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," he replied, holding his hand out to her; she shook it firmly and Gil noticed that her nail polish was the same shade of red as her lipstick.

"Clearly you don't need me," Wagner muttered. Gil and Olga Nowakowa ignored him.

"Tell me, then, _pani _Nowakowa, what brings you here?" Gil asked, as though he didn't already know.

"Oh, really, the details would bore you. Civil conversation, that's all. Quite dull. In any case, I was just leaving," she said gracefully, standing as Wagner frowned at her.

"You were?" he asked. Gil had to hold back a laugh.

"Yes, I was. It was certainly nice speaking with you, though. We shall have to meet again sometime soon. You, too, _Herr_ Beilschmidt," she said before taking her leave, the faint scent of her perfume lingering behind her.

Gil immediately turned, frowning, to Wagner.

"What?" the general demanded.

"She's married."

"Widowed, actually. Her husband died in a tragic accident or something. We, ah, didn't spend much time talking about that."

"You're married." _With two daughters._

"That's not important," Wagner said, shuffling through the papers on his desk.

"Your marriage?"

"No. Nowakowa."

"Would your wife agree?"

Wagner's face reddened as he fidgeted. "She doesn't know."

_No, she's miles away in Dresden and for all your claims of loving her, you wasted little time in finding a mistress,_ Gil thought, but he remained silent. There was no need to start a fight over it, not if he wanted to pry any information from him.

"How were your meetings?" Wagner asked, not looking at him.

Gil shrugged. "They were meetings," he said simply, hoping Wagner didn't pick up any bitterness.

If he did he didn't say anything about it. "Before you ask," he said dryly, "Łukasiewicz didn't do anything while you were gone. I think you're just paranoid."

Gil bit his tongue._ I've only known him for, oh, a few centuries longer than you have, I think I know him a bit better than you._ "He's...smarter than people give him credit for."

"I'd rather have him in Warsaw where I—where _you_—can keep an eye on him."

"There are plenty of people outside of Warsaw who could keep an eye on him. Austria, for example." _That_ would be something; Gil generally disliked Feliks but they had a shared love of pranking Edelstein, and the thought of Feliks having no higher authority to deal with than Edelstein meant that Edelstein would probably never sleep—though Gil supposed it also meant that it would be easier for Feliks to do something stupid like run away. _Dammit Wagner's right about this._

"All the same, I personally trust you more. Besides, it makes it look like we're compromising, doesn't it?"

"I don't think anyone but Łukasiewicz cares about that, and he definitely knows it's not a compromise."

"Perhaps you could offer a compromise, then."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Limited freedom in return for his cooperation."

"He'll never go for it."

"You could always try—"

Gil sighed. "I_ could_."

"It was only a suggestion."

There was a knock at the door and Wagner coughed and shifted uncomfortably before standing and walking over to the door.

"What have you done now?" Gil asked. _I was gone for a week! One week!_

Wagner cracked the door. "Listen, Zimmer, this isn't a good time—"

"This is a great time," Gil called, sliding off the desk and crossing the room to join him. Wagner hesitated but opened the door to reveal Doctor Zimmer...and a girl who couldn't have been older than sixteen.

Gil frowned at the man next to him. He drew the line at involving children, he'd thought he'd made that clear to him, but...

"It's a long story," Wagner muttered. The girl was wringing her hands, her shoulders hunched, as she looked at the floor.

"I'll have to find the time to hear it, then," Gil replied icily. Zimmer was smiling uncertainly, small blue eyes flitting from Gil to Wagner and back to Gil again.

"She's—she's my, uh, secretary."

"Is she really?"

She was shuffling her feet, and Gil couldn't help but notice that she was shaking.

"Does she even speak German?" he demanded.

"Not yet. But I know enough Polish—"

"No, you don't."

"—to get my point across."

Gil sighed again, running his fingers through his hair. _I just wanted to go to bed, dammit_. "What's your name?" he asked her in Polish.

She jumped before stammering without looking up, "Hanna Ratajczakówna."

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen. Sir."

_ Oh, God, help me. _

"If I may," Zimmer interrupted.

"Not now," Gil replied before switching back to Polish. "Come with me," he ordered Hanna Ratajczakówna, pushing past Wagner into the hallway.

She hesitated, glancing at Wagner, who was frowning at Gil.

"I'm going to teach her German," Gil said, answering the question that hadn't been asked. Wagner nodded in resignation and the girl timidly followed Gil to his own office—an office that saw far less use than Wagner's—leaving Zimmer and Wagner to discuss whatever the hell it was they were going to discuss.

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the lone chair in front of his desk before sitting down himself on the other side.

She fidgeted briefly before obeying, staring down into her lap.

Gil sighed again. "Listen, if you're going to be Wagner's secretary or whatever the hell he told you you're going to be, you're going to have to learn German and I'm pretty much the only person here who can do that, got it? I'm not going to hurt you or anything, I'm trying to help you. You'll thank me for it, someday."

"Yes, sir," she muttered.

"Do you know any German at all?"

She mumbled something he couldn't catch, and he asked her to repeat herself; slightly louder, she said, "No—but I—I speak Yiddish."

_I'm going to strangle Wagner tomorrow_, Gil decided, but tried to keep his anger from showing—she was terrified of him as it was, and, while he'd never said no to people acknowledging his superiority in pretty much everything, he'd never been a big fan of people whose respect came from fear.


	6. Truce

**_"It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace." -Chuck Palahniuk _**  
****

**_Warsaw_**

**_December 1940_**

"You ever heard of Olga Nowakowa?" Gil asked, sitting on the couch next to Feliks uninvited.

Feliks nearly choked on his coffee. "Why?" he asked, eyes watery, as he recovered.

Gil frowned. "'Cause Wagner's got this..._thing_...with her. And she's...well, she's not exactly the kinda woman you just meet randomly on the street, y'know?"

Feliks was silent a moment. "Yeah. I know her." He stared out the window, watching the flurries of snow, illuminated by the streetlight against the deep blue of evening, as they drifted in their spiraling paths.

Gil waited a moment before realizing Feliks wasn't going to elaborate. "You know her and...?"

Feliks frowned, his face darker than Gil would have expected. He took a deep breath before saying, "During the war with the Bolsheviks, there were rumors that she and her husband were spies...But they were _only _rumors, and they had enough influence to...to not get in any trouble." He made a face, and Gil wondered what Feliks's role had been in that. "Well, back in '26, I think-her daughter was, like, five or so, I _think_, Florian Nowak-her husband-died. Drowned in the river. _Pani _Nowakowa had never seemed very close to him, but after he died, for a few years, she went on as-well, she mourned for far longer than people these days do. Hundred years ago would've been a different story but...Marta Nowakówna, her daughter...well she was young so I guess you can't blame her, but...Oh, there are all sorts of rumors about whether or not Florian Nowak was _actually _her father. Wagner-Wagner isn't _pani _Nowakowa's first lover." He grimaced. "But I couldn't tell you how reliable any of them are. Marta Nowakówna looks too much like her mother for the rumors to really pinpoint any one possible father. The most wild rumor _I've _heard is that she's the daughter of some Soviet guy-Kliment Duchovny, I think."

Gil whistled under his breath. "Yeah, I've heard of him. Met him, once." He wrinkled his nose. "Nasty bit of work, even by Soviet standards. I don't think Braginsky likes him much. Arlovskaya definitely doesn't."

Feliks scoffed. "Arlovskaya doesn't like anyone."

"True."

They lapsed into silence as the cup of coffee Feliks had begrudgingly given Gil grew cold in his hands.

"How's Hanna Ratajczakówna been?" Feliks asked. Agreeing to look after her had been one of Feliks's terms for returning to a civil relationship with Gil. He'd been watching over her, anyway, finding it hard to trust Wagner, but Feliks wanted to protect his people so badly he'd made Gil promise regardless.

"She's...she's safe. Miserable, I think, but safe."

Feliks sighed, and, for a moment, Gil saw the centuries-old man who had been through far too much that Gil sometimes forgot he actually was.

"I can't exactly befriend her, you know," Gil said.

"No, I know. I just...I feel useless."

_That's 'cause you are_, Gil thought, but he refrained from saying that. "I'm looking out for her, don't worry."

Feliks nodded. "I can only imagine how she must feel..."

Gil had to agree. Her family was dead, and she wasn't even from Warsaw-she had lived farther north, until her home had been destroyed in an "accident." If she'd made any friends since coming to Warsaw, she made no mention of them...which didn't surprise him. She didn't like talking about her personal life, or at all, really. She was still uncomfortable around Gil and downright terrified of Wagner, though, as far as Gil could tell, he'd never actually hurt her. Gil had warned him-it was bad enough he'd taken the girl as a secretary of sorts, but if any harm came to her he'd regret it, religious differences be damned. Kids had no business getting caught up in the politics of war.

Feliks had been furious when Gil first told him of Hanna, which had turned out to be one of the reasons he was willing to stop hating Gil-they had found a shared enemy in Wagner. Still, Gil felt some loyalty to the general, which was why he'd only just told Feliks about his affair with Olga Nowakowa, however much it had bothered him.

"Any news?" Feliks asked. That had been the other condition-that Gil keep him updated on things happening elsewhere.

"Nothing important," he answered with a shrug.

"Nothing important, or nothing that concerns me?" the blond asked wryly.

_You've got no power here, Łukasiewicz. I could stop telling you the news and what could you do? Stop talking to me? _

"Nothing important," he repeated, then, after a moment, "If it makes you feel any better, I've heard that Braginsky isn't home much. Not sure exactly where he is, other than 'not Moscow,' but that means he's been mostly leaving your boyfriend alone-"

"I know what it means," Feliks snapped, but he frowned thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't recommend trying to contact him, all the same. Wagner might not be so keen on letting you stay in Warsaw if he knows..." Gil didn't need to finish the sentence. Feliks knew; he'd been dealing with the risks of homosexuality for centuries now. "In any case, if you got past us, you'd still need to get past the Soviets. They'd also be...not happy, I think."

"I know."

"Are you more concerned about yourself or him?" Gil asked after a brief silence.

"I'm s'posed to say him, right?" Feliks sighed. "I don't know. I think it's about equal."

Gil considered that. "I dunno what you're _supposed _to say. It would be pretty dumb to put him in front of yourself in this situation."

"Yeah."

"Bet he's willing to put you first though. He's always done shit like that, right?"

"Once, I'd have agreed with you," Feliks said quietly. "Now... Oh, I'm not saying he doesn't put others first. I'm just not sure if he puts _me _first. It's not like I've given him many reasons to, and, like you said, it'd be dumb in our situation. Everything else aside, we're too far from each other for it to do much good."

"You really miss him."

"Of course I miss him. I've been missing him for decades."

"What's it like, being in a relationship?"

"Oh, that's right, you've never been in one," Feliks said with a smirk.

"Oh, shut up and answer the damn question."

Feliks chuckled. "Well...I mean, I'm mostly...looking back, y'know? But...it was nice. All those warm fuzzy feelings and stuff."

Gil tried not to laugh. "And constant paranoia, I guess."

"I mean...yeah. There was that. It's still there...a few people did know, but...Toris and I are...we're _different_, y'know? And I always felt guilty when people took it that way, 'cause...'cause what about everyone else? What about the ordinary people? And...there were times when I...when I really, truly hated myself. Because it was _wrong_, but Toris always tried to find proof that it's not..."

"D'you still feel that way?"

"Sometimes. Not as often as I used to. It's hard to...it's hard to feel that way when, after so long, you still love someone. You realize you can't choose who you love. You can choose whether or not to love them, y'know. And...that's the real secret to a relationship. Emotions will fuck you over every time, you can't build any sort of foundation on them. A relationship is completely a choice, and it's a choice you have to make over and over and over again. But it's worth it. It's worth it every damn time."

Gil mulled over that for a minute. "Why have you decided to keep loving him, after everything? Isn't it exhausting?"

"Yeah. It is, really, and it's worse because I can't tell anyone. And where's the payoff, right? Especially if he hasn't made the same choice...I just...I can't see myself with anyone else, ever. No one's ever understood me like him, and I've never understood anyone the way I understood him. Neither of us are perfect, we stopped deluding ourselves about _that _quickly enough, but that's the thing about love. You can't be perfect, you just have to be worth it.

"I guess I've kept loving Toris because I was so happy when I was with him...Because he brought out the best in me, he was always there, in ways no one else ever could be. And I can only assume he still cares about me, at least a little. Otherwise...otherwise he wouldn't have warned me, right?" His voice had grown softer with every word, and, by the end, Gil could barely hear him.

Gil was inclined to agree with that, though. Sure, Laurinaitis would have had some other advantages if Feliks had actually listened to his warning, but Laurinaitis wasn't really the kind of person who would have thought much of them.

"I couldn't tell you if he still loves me or not," Feliks said. "Last I talked to him, I don't think _he _could have answered that question. I...I don't blame him, really. But...the thing is, after awhile, I stopped seeing our relationship as Poland and Lithuania-it was Feliks and Toris, right?" Gil nodded. "But...I don't know how he sees it anymore."

"I think he'd rather be with you than with Braginsky," Gil said, trying to lighten the mood.

Feliks snorted. "God, I hope so. If not, then I've truly fucked up beyond anyone's help."

Gil chuckled. "I don't think anyone could hate you _that _much. Even me."

"I mean, there's Arlovskaya."

"She's his sister, that doesn't count. She's obligated to like him."

It was Feliks's turn to laugh. "She doesn't seem all that unwilling."

"Yeah, well, the whole family's fucked up."

"Very true."

They returned to silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Gil found himself staring out the window now, glad for Feliks's cozy sitting room as the wind began to pick up. He sighed, thinking of all the winters he'd seen, memories blending together and flitting around his head like the growing snowflakes outside.

"D'you think it'll be a cold winter?" Feliks asked, pulling him back to the present.

"All winters are cold, dumbass."

"More than usual."

He shrugged. "What's that mean to us, anyway?"

Feliks didn't answer, but, when Gil looked at him, it occurred to him that Feliks had not been concerned about himself, for once. He thought of Hanna, who wasn't allowed to live in the same building he and Wagner did, and shivered out of sympathy, wondering if she would be able to stay warm at night. He made a mental note to figure something out tomorrow.

The untouched coffee in Gil's hands had cooled far too much to be worth drinking, and even Feliks had only drank about half of his cup. "You should try harder to keep up your energy," Gil said, gesturing with his elbow toward Feliks's mug.

Feliks frowned down at it. "I mean, I don't really need that much energy from coffee this time of night."

_But it's all you had to offer, _Gil thought.

"Are you going to stay here for Christmas?"

"Probably." He hesitated. "Ludwig won't be home, so there's not much point. Unless I want to celebrate with Edelstein."

The ghost of a smile graced Feliks's face. "How is your brother?"

Gil knew he was only asking out of politeness, and so he said simply, "He's fine," though he was tempted to say what had been bothering him for some time-that they hadn't spoken since September.

Feliks nodded. "You're-you're welcome to spend Christmas with me. If you want."

"A Catholic and a Lutheran celebrating Christmas together? Maybe this winter will be colder than usual after all-cold enough that Hell will freeze over," Gil joked.

Feliks shrugged. "Just thought I'd offer." He paused. "I'll be alone, otherwise, so."

"I'll consider it."

"Thank you."

Gil frowned. "_That _lonely?"

"Well, it _is _Christmas."

Gil laughed at that, and Feliks grinned in response.

"Don't expect any gifts or anything," Gil warned.

"Likewise," was Feliks's response.

Gil didn't want to admit it, but Feliks's invitation made him feel better-like someone actually wanted to be with him, something he hadn't really felt in months, and something he hadn't realized he'd missed until then.


	7. The Traitor and the Thief

**_"I'm lonely. And I'm lonely in some horribly deep way and for a flash of an instant, I can see just how lonely, and how deep this feeling runs. And it scares the shit out of me to be this lonely because it seems catastrophic."― Augusten Burroughs_**

**_Warsaw_**

**_February 1941_**

"Let me see," Gil ordered, not unkindly, and Hanna obeyed, offering him her wounded hand. He winced in sympathy at the gash across her palm, but didn't ask what had happened, doubting that she would answer. Dabbing at it with a damp cloth to clean it, he made sure there wasn't anything in the cut—thankfully, there wasn't.

"Why'd you come to me?" he asked casually, beginning to wrap a bandage around her hand.

She hesitated, looking, as ever, as though he'd caught her in the middle of something she wasn't supposed to be doing. As though she has it in herself to break the rules. Hazel eyes wide, she admitted, "Doctor Zimmer frightens me."

Everything frightened Hanna, but Gil had to admit, he didn't care for the doctor, either. There was something just slightly off about him, as though he were constantly plotting something. An unpleasant characteristic for anyone to have, but especially a doctor.

"I don't mind you coming to me instead," he said after a moment. He preferred it, actually, but he didn't want to admit that so blatantly. Naïve as she was, Wagner probably used her as an informant of sorts, and tensions were high between them as it was.

She blushed, glancing down again, her hair dark gold in the weak late afternoon sun. Under most other circumstances, Gil supposed she'd be considered pretty, at least for her age. As a woman, she might be dangerous, but she was far too timid to even consider manipulation, unlike Olga Nowakowa. Wagner had laughed off Łukasiewicz's claims, which still infuriated Gil. It wasn't that he didn't agree with Wagner's hesitation to trust Łukasiewicz, but Gil had known the Pole for centuries, and he had a good idea of when he was lying. There had been genuine distaste when he'd talked about her, and Gil couldn't bring himself to trust Nowakowa. Why was she interested in Wagner? It didn't make much sense—oh, sure, she lived a relatively lavish lifestyle, and being close to Wagner allowed her to continue doing so, but why? She was already unpopular because of rumors about possible allegiance with the Soviets, why would she openly then side with Wagner? It was a strange way at best of dispelling those rumors. But Wagner was infatuated and, in any case, had assured Gil that he wasn't likely to let a woman—a Polish woman, at that—get the best of him.

_You don't understand_, Gil had wanted to—still wanted to—scream. He wasn't sure why he didn't...other than a mistrust of Wagner. One moment listening seriously to his advice and the next dismissing him entirely...It was enough to drive Gil mad. And then Hanna, of course. Why? Oh, he could think of a few reasons, but...None of them added up, not really. There was no evidence that he had ever hurt her, or touched her in any way that was...

Well, there was also no evidence that Nowakowa had aided the Bolsheviks, but that didn't mean much, apparently.

Hanna shifted uncomfortably in the chair, and Gil was brought back to the present. He let go of her hand, aware that she was staring at him; he wondered what his face had looked like.

"Say, you wanna go help me with a couple things?" he asked energetically.

She frowned, and Gil realized there hadn't been much point in asking. Of course she'd do anything he told her to.

Determined not to let that get him down, he jumped to his feet and went to grab his coat; Hanna hesitated but followed.

It was still bitterly cold outside, a thin coat of snow crunching underfoot. Hanna was easily dwarfed by her woolen coat, and had to jog to keep up with Gil's walking pace, but she never voiced any complaint. Not that Gil ever expected her to.

The world was gray; even the snow had a dirty tint, but Gil was mostly used to it by now. Winter was colorless, that was just a fact of life.

He was going through a list of things he needed to do in his head, wondering what he should do first, realizing that maybe having Hanna tag along wasn't such a good idea, after all—not because he was doing something he shouldn't, or even something she shouldn't know about, but there was the possibility she would tell Wagner, and the thought of Wagner keeping tabs on him like that made him uncomfortable.

After several minutes of wandering aimlessly that he hoped didn't look like wandering aimlessly, he casually asked her, "Does Wagner ever ask you about me?"

Hanna jumped, and Gil only needed to see how pale she had become to know the answer. "Yes," she admitted quietly, obviously trying not to fidget and failing.

"What do you tell him?"

"The—the truth. Sir," she mumbled, and Gil sighed softly. What else was there for her to tell him? Even if she had it in her to lie, Gil doubted she'd be very good at it.

He supposed he might as well come up with something to do, even if it wasn't actually anything—she didn't need to know that, after all, and neither did Wagner. Maybe wandering around for a bit, talking to a couple random people...

Yes, brilliant. There was absolutely no way that could ever go wrong.

"Sir?" Hanna asked timidly, trying to hide herself in her oversized coat.

"Yeah?" Gil replied, frowning down at her.

"Are you...are you angry about—about me telling General Wagner about you?"

"I'm not angry at you, Hanna. You're only doing what you're told." Now, which random people to talk to...

It took her a few minutes to speak again. "Sir, I—you—you're very kind to me, sir, I—I want to—to thank you."

Gil frowned at her again; she was blushing, but she met his gaze. He sighed. "Hanna?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't thank me for treating you like you're human," he said, turning back to scanning for random passersby he could bullshit a conversation with. "...And don't tell Wagner I said that, either," he added after a moment, "he wouldn't like it, and we'd both get in trouble."

"Yes, sir. Sir, what sort of, um, errands are we supposed to be doing?"

"Why?"

"Because, sir, we've been standing here for awhile. Are we waiting for someone?"

Before Gil could finish cursing himself, he heard shouts behind him; turning, he saw a girl about Hanna's age appear from behind a corner and run toward him, too fast and too close for either of them to react before she crashed into him. Gil quickly righted himself; the shouting grew louder and, acting on instinct, he dragged the girl to the nearest alley and shoved her out of sight, pushing Hanna in after her.

Two soldiers appeared from the same corner the girl had, out of breath and visibly furious. "There was a girl," one huffed, catching sight of Gil, "a thief, did you see her?"

Gil silently pointed in the opposite direction of the alley, they nodded, and ran off in that direction. When he was sure they were gone, he turned to the two girls in the alley, surprised to see them arguing in whispers. The new girl was hiding something behind her back, for which Hanna appeared to be scolding her. _Hanna, angry? That's new. _He watched them for a moment, amused, before stepping into the alley.

"What did you steal?" he asked calmly.

They both jumped, and the other girl looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Nothing," she said quickly, "I haven't stolen anything." If she hadn't obviously been holding something behind her back, Gil might have believed her, but there was something about her that screamed "trouble." She was taller than Hanna, with thick, dark, curly hair and deep brown eyes that were just a bit too wide.

"Oh? Then what's behind your back?"

Hanna was trying not to smirk, and Gil wondered if they knew each other.

The other girl hesitated, but Gil held his hand out, and she reluctantly started to hand over the pitifully small loaf of bread she'd been hiding before dropping it and darting off down the alley. Gil stared blankly for a moment before deciding to follow her, Hanna close behind.

She hadn't gotten far: around the next corner, she'd run into Wagner, who had twisted her right arm behind her back, forcing her to her knees. Gil sighed, and Wagner glanced up at him.

"There you are," he said, though he was looking at Hanna. "Let me just take care of this little problem, and we'll be on our way..."

"She's with me," Gil said, hoping he came across as calm.

"I realize that _now_—"

"Not just Hanna. Let her go." _This would be more convincing if I knew her name._

Wagner scowled at him but obeyed anyway, and the girl scrambled to her feet and toward Gil, though she kept her distance. She was staring down at the ground timidly, but Gil wasn't entirely convinced. "What're you doing here, anyway?"

"That's not your business," Gil replied coldly.

Wagner glanced at Hanna, who was half-hiding behind Gil in the alley. "You should've let me know before you took her anywhere."

"Slipped my mind. Don't you have more important things to be doing?"

"Yes, and thanks to you, I've wasted most of my day trying to look for Hanna, who you had right to take—"

"She's a person, Wagner, not a toy."

Wagner dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "I've wasted enough of my time. Make sure you're not wasting yours," he said, turning and walking off to somewhere Gil suspected had Olga Nowakowa waiting.

He turned to the other girl. She was eyeing him wearily, close enough that there wasn't a need to tell her to come closer, but just far enough that if she tried to run again, she'd have a decent chance of getting away. "What's your name?" he asked casually.

She didn't answer right away; for half a moment, Gil thought she would run again, but she relaxed slightly and said, "Irena Kowalczykówna."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"Liar," Hanna muttered; Irena Kowalczykówna glared at her.

"I will be in April, it's close enough," she replied hotly as Gil quietly hushed her. "Why d'you care, anyway?" she asked Gil, her eyes narrowed.

"Oh, no reason, I was just thinking that maybe I needed a secretary." _I can't wait to see the look on Wagner's face._

If the look on Irena Kowalczykówna's face was any indication, it would be well worth any trouble she might cause.

"Now, tell me, do you know any German?"

"No," she said, as though she were deeply offended by the thought._ Oh, yes, Wagner will love this._

"Well, we'll work on that, then. I'll find you tomorrow morning and you can start immediately—"

"You were actually _serious_—"

"Of course I was. You may go now." It was hard to keep a straight face; she glared at him, briefly, before walking past him, bumping into Hanna and muttering "_Traitor," _as she passed.

_Ah._

"Were you serious, sir?" Hanna asked quietly after a moment.

"I'll keep her away from you, if it makes you feel better," he promised.

She hesitated. "Sir, what will General Wagner—"

"Leave Wagner to me—listen, Hanna, I need a favor."

"Yes, sir?"

"I need you to lie for me."


	8. Impatience

**_"_****_Never confuse movement with action." –Ernest Hemingway_**

**_Warsaw_**

**_April 1941_**

Hanna sighed, resting her hand on her chin. She was sitting at Beilschmidt's desk, facing the small window behind it. Normally, she'd have been able to watch the sunset from the window, but today black clouds blanketed the sky, and distant grumbles of thunder promised a stormy night.

"What're you still doing here, anyway?" Irena asked from behind her. Hanna tried not to make a face. _Patience, that's the key._

She didn't move when she answered, "I don't have anything else to do."

"Then go have nothing to do somewhere else."

"I can't, Doctor Zimmer will find me."

Irena sighed, frustrated. "Fine. But if Zimmer comes here, I'm blaming you."

"Why are you so rude, Irena Kowalczykówna?" Hanna asked, exasperated.

Irena scoffed. "I doubt Zimmer's a real doctor. I'm not convinced he has any idea what he's doing. And I don't know his first name, and I don't care. I don't have much to do with him, and I'd like to keep it that way." She was pacing in front of the empty fireplace to Hanna's left, from the sounds of her footsteps. Hanna didn't really feel like turning around to see.

"Lucky," Hanna muttered.

"It's not _my_ fault General Wagner's off…doing whatever it is he does when he's gone for so long."

"He's with Olga Nowakowa," Hanna said, "he'll be gone all night, probably."

"Isn't he married—wait, did you say Olga Nowakowa?" Irena crossed the room to sit on the desk; Hanna frowned up at her before answering.

"Yes, but I'm not interested in gossip." It had started to rain, a light drizzle quickly escalating into a deafening downpour.

"But it's a different _kind_ of gossip. The kind the adults only whisper about behind closed doors." How Irena's apparent mood could change so quickly was a mystery to Hanna; she was a whirlwind of emotions, one moment angry and the next happy, and it made reading her very difficult. Her current talkativeness could easily be leading Hanna into a trap of condescending know-it-all remarks.

"Irena Kowalczykówna, I don't _care_ about rumors. It's not like they've got anything to do with _my_ life," she replied with a sigh.

"Oh, these might." There was a wicked grin on Irena's face, and Hanna decided to hedge her bets, in hopes that Irena would leave her alone afterward.

"What are they, then?"

A brilliant flash of light outside was quickly followed by a booming clap of thunder; Irena leaned forward and whispered, "There're some people who think she's a _spy_."

"Well, as close as she is to General Wagner—"

"No, that she's a spy for the Soviets," Irena said, even quieter, all mischief gone from her face. "Apparently they've been around since the war with the Bolsheviks. Well, that and that she may or may not have killed her husband, but who cares about _that_?" She said the last sentence normally, and Hanna's frown deepened.

"Those are both very serious accusations—"

"Hey, I assume if she killed her husband she had a good reason."

"Irena Kowalczykówna!" Hanna scolded, standing and facing the other girl.

"Unless maybe it had something to do with her being a spy," she mused, leaning back. "Maybe he found out, and she _had_ to kill him. Maybe he was a spy, too, but was starting to have second thoughts—oh! Maybe she had a Russian lover and he found out about _that_—"

"I can't believe I'm listening to this nonsense," Hanna muttered.

"She can't have very high standards if she spends so much time with Wagner. That or she's addicted to power or something. I could see that. Maybe her lover's a higher up. Maybe killing her husband was a test of faith."

"The only man she _should_ have proved her faith to was her husband. Where do you even come up with this?"

"Oh, the whole _city_ knows—I forgot you're not from here. Sorry."

Hanna decided to ignore her, and turned toward the door.

Rain. Brilliant. That was _just_ what Grobinsky needed. Never mind the fact that he was stiff from staying in the same spot all day, on top of the roof in the sunlight, now it had to _rain_? And he couldn't just return to Nowakowa, oh, no, _Wagner_ was coming over tonight.

He gritted his teeth. Why did Nowakowa even care who visited Łukasiewicz? He was under house arrest, any visitors he wasn't supposed to have were hardly going to come in through the front door. Sure, Beilschmidt visited frequently, but Łukasiewicz would hardly be plotting anything with _him_. Why couldn't Nowakowa just admit that she hated him and only wanted him out of the way?

_Women_, he thought, gritting his teeth as he finally moved from crouching to sitting; he leaned back against the chimney, stretching his legs and feeling like nothing could feel better—until the pins and needles started. Silently fuming, he rubbed his thighs until the feeling went away, leaving only the wet and cold and the stiffness of his joints. _If I'm going to be in miserable conditions, let me be in miserable conditions _doing_ something_. He cursed Nowakowa and Kliment Duchovny until he ran out of swearwords and combinations of them; he frowned at the clouds, watching the distant lightning until exhaustion glued his eyes shut and he sank into oblivion.

When Beilschmidt had first brought Irena as his secretary, Wagner had tried one-upping him in nearly every regard, but Beilschmidt hadn't really seemed to care that much—until Wagner had decided Hanna would start living in the same building as them. Beilschmidt—to everyone's surprise—had decided that Irena would also live with them.

It was something Hanna didn't think she'd ever forgive him for; Hanna was not as upset by it as she probably should have been, though she was left in a cold basement room while Irena got to stay on the top floor near Beilschmidt. She didn't have any friends; Irena still had her mother to worry about. More than that, she was guaranteed somewhere warm to sleep, and enough food she didn't have to worry about starving. Besides, if she hadn't quite come to like Beilschmidt, she had come to respect and appreciate him. It truly felt like he was looking after her—why he would do that, she couldn't have said, but it was certainly nice to feel a bit safer.

She shivered, thinking of Wagner and feeling more than a little jealous that Irena seemed to hardly have anything to do with him. No, Irena got to spend most of her time with Beilschmidt, whom she resented—and Beilschmidt knew, because she wasn't afraid to talk back to him, a fact that always unnerved Hanna.

Maybe that was why Beilschmidt kept Irena away from Wagner; he was afraid she'd say something she shouldn't.

Although, Hanna realized, Beilschmidt didn't seem too fond of Irena. He seemed to be looking after her, sure, but…. _Well, Irena Kowalczykówna is frustrating. Of course he doesn't like her_. Beilschmidt was an impatient teacher at best, and Irena seemed to almost go out of her way _not _to learn German.

She sighed. Did it really _matter_, in the grand scheme of things, why Beilschmidt or Irena were the way they were? The best thing to do was keep her head down and mind her own business. Frowning at the narrow window above her that gave just enough light to see by, she hugged herself—and realized that she'd left her sweater in Beilschmidt's office. She sighed again, and decided it was worth a quick trip upstairs—just in case it got cold overnight.

She was technically allowed to be anywhere in the building—except a couple of rooms—at any point—or, rather, no explicit curfew had ever been given—but her heart was racing as she ran lightly up the stairs, staying on her toes the whole way up and walking as quietly as she could toward Beilschmidt's office, shaking. The thunder had long since stopped, but the rain provided some background noise; long shadows stretched across the hall; she softly pushed the door to Beilschmidt's rooms open and slipped through.

The shadows on the wall behind her were dancing, and a flickering orange light was lurking behind the door to the office. Hanna held her breath and tentatively pushed the door open to see Irena standing in front of the now-lit fireplace…burning _papers?_

She gasped when she realized what Irena was doing and the other girl spun around wildly.

Relaxing as soon as she recognized Hanna, she said, "What're you doing here? I thought you went to bed."

She sounded so calm Hanna wanted to hit her. "What are _you_ doing?" she demanded, entering the office, but shutting the door behind her. _Just in case._

"I—listen, you can't tell _anyone_ about this, alright? I'll—I'll think of some favor to do for you or something."

"Irena Kowalczykówna, do you have any idea what they'll _do_ to you?" Hanna said quietly, her shaking hands in fists as she walked toward her.

"Of course I do," Irena snapped, "that's why you can't tell anyone!"

"You're—you're mad—"

"I'm _not_. I'm just…doing something."

"You're going to get yourself killed, or worse—"

"Why do you care? You're not going to _tell_ someone, are you? I should've known," Irena said with a sneer.

"I'm not a traitor!" Hanna hissed, her face hot. "And if I did, what could you do about it?"

Irena seemed to freeze; she frowned at Hanna before mumbling, "You're not as nice as everyone thinks, huh?"

"You've got to stop this!"

"No," she said harshly, turning back to the flames.

"What do you hope to accomplish by doing this, anyway? He'll learn any information you're destroying somewhere else."

"I know. But it's better than nothing."

"Why take it upon yourself to do something? There are better people to fight back—" _Try to be logical, talk her out of this insanity…._

"Maybe. But I can't stand back and do nothing."

"You can and you _should_, before you get hurt."

"I won't get hurt, because I won't get caught. They killed my _brother_, Hanna Ratajczakówna, I—I—" Her face was a mess of conflicted emotion and firelight; she looked like something not human, as angry determination took over. "I won't stand back," she said again.

"You're mad, Irena Kowalczykówna," she whispered.

"David was _seven_. There was no reason—"

Hanna's voice was shaking. "Beilschmidt has done nothing but look after you—"

"Oh, and he looks after you, too," she said, her voice dripping acid. "That's why he lets Wagner—"

"He doesn't know about that!" Hanna said, feeling her face grow hot again. "That's why he doesn't—"

"Then why not _tell_ him?" Irena demanded, her sneer back as she turned to face Hanna.

"I hate you," Hanna said softly. "I really do. I try to be nice and patient, but all you ever do is yell at me and I'm tired of it! I—_ugh_!" She spun on her heel and left as quickly as she could, fighting tears and forgetting about her sweater.

Grobinsky was sinking. The inky blue water was swallowing him, and as he struggled against it, he could _feel_ water pouring into his lungs. It was exhausting, trying to reach the light above him, but at last he reached it, only to find that the surface was blocked by ice. He pounded against it, his blows comically slowed by the water as it tightened against his chest. His vision was blocked by black dots swimming around his eyes and, with an exhausted sigh, he gave up and let the water drag him to oblivion.

The light of the sunrise hitting his face woke him; he sighed, rubbing his eyes, trying to shake off the nightmare. He was still soaked; wisps of clouds turned dark purple on the horizon hinted ominously that this bit of sun may not last. He stood with a groan, stretching, before deciding to risk it and head back to Olga Nowakowa's.


	9. Schadenfreude

**Schadenfreude_ n._** a feeling of enjoyment that comes from seeing or hearing about the troubles of other people. From German, _Schaden_, damage, and _Freude_, joy.

**_Moscow_**

**_30 July 1941_**

Ivan's dining room was ill-suited for a conference room at best; before the Revolution, in his old house, it would have been a different story. Now, though, it was as large as it was merely because so many people lived with Ivan and it was necessary.

All of those countries were now crammed into the windowless room with several humans, and Toris wondered why they'd had to meet in Ivan's _house _of all places.

To be fair, the humans hadn't expected _all _of the countries to demand a presence at the meeting—that had been a fairly last minute decision that he didn't think Ivan was very happy about.

Natalya was silently fuming in her seat. It was rare that she was pissed at her brother, and even Toris had known to leave her alone over the past several days; luckily, none of the humans tried bothering her. Uzbekistan was trying to talk to a man with sandy blond hair Toris didn't recognize, probably trying to convince him to let her return home. He doubted it was going well.

Most of the other countries were merely annoyed, except those who clearly didn't want to be there. Toris sighed softly. Yes, it was nice that the other nations wanted to stand up for themselves in a unified manner like they were planning, but he didn't think it would do much _good_. He usually tried to avoid having anything at all to do with Ivan's government, dodging strategy meetings whenever he could, but from the experience he _did _have with them, he had a feeling there would be trouble.

Ivan at last gave the signal for everyone to have a seat; the nations filed into place, leaving the humans standing, which Toris couldn't help feeling a _little _satisfied by. He sat next to Natalya, on Ivan's left side, resulting in a dirty look from her; normally, he'd have sat next to Ivan, but he was surrounded by his sisters and Toris wasn't really in the mood to talk to him more than necessary today.

Kliment Duchovny was a short, unpleasant-looking man with dirty blond hair and steely eyes; his sneer was met by stone-faced countries as he began the meeting.

"I am certainly honored by your, er, _unexpected_ presence," he said. It was a wonder anyone kept a straight face after the blatant lie. "As you all know, we are under serious threat from Germany—"

"Is that what you call an invasion?" Natalya demanded.

Half the room glanced at Ivan; the other half turned to Duchovny; all held their breaths, waiting for a response from either.

"Well," Duchovny said after a moment with a tense smile. "I certainly don't know what else you'd call it."

"An invasion?" Natalya suggested. "A blatant attack? _Reason to take action_?"

Duchovny's smile faded as he realized what she meant. "As we've told you all before, your place is here in Moscow."

"Why won't you let us help?" she demanded, and Toris watched as Ivan shrank in on himself.

"I just _said_—"

"What good are we doing here?" Kovalevskaya interrupted. "Let us _fight_."

Murmurs of agreement came from most of the nations, but not all; Toris remained silent, as did Ukraine, Estonia, and Latvia. He was only surprised slightly by Ukraine's silence. Ivan was still trying to hide, though Toris didn't think anyone was paying him any attention anymore.

"I don't see the harm in it," the man Kovalevskaya had been talking to earlier said quietly, frowning thoughtfully. Duchovny frowned at him, and he continued, "Really, if they want to fight, let them. What could go wrong?"

"Plenty of things," Duchovny said, glaring at the countries. "Changes of allegiance, for instance."

Kovalevskaya scoffed and Natalya stood. "If you think for one second that I would _ever _betray—"

"I'm not so worried about _you_—"

"Then why won't you let me fight?"

Duchovny sighed with all the patience of a father telling his child "no" for the hundredth time. "Because you're more useful here."

"Bullshit. I'm tired of your games, Duchovny."

Kliment Ivanovitch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Natasha," Ivan murmured as a warning; if she heard him, she ignored him.

"Let us _fight_," she said.

"I understand you're frustrated about Minsk—"

"_Frustrated_? No, I'm frustrated that you're an idiot. I'm _furious_ about Minsk, and I'm downright _pissed_ you won't let me do anything about it!"

Nations and humans held their breaths, watching Natalya and Duchovny glare at each other. The tension was palpable; Toris was frozen, afraid she'd gone too far.

Duchovny's glare faded into a grin that sent shivers up Toris's spine. "Very well, if you insist. I'll talk to the people who can get you to fight. I'll even get some men together for you. As a sign of my…goodwill."

Natalya wavered, her eyes narrow, clearly mistrustful, but she nodded curtly and sat back down without a word.

The rest of the meeting had more or less gone smoothly, but Toris could sense unease on all sides. _What's Duchovny planning? _

Natalya was talking quietly to Kovalevskaya, the two of them glaring occasionally at Duchovny. Toris was about to join them, but the blond man tapped on his shoulder.

"Ah, excuse me," he said, "but I—I just wanted to ask if you planned on fighting alongside Natalya Arlovskaya?"

"He'll be staying here," Ivan said from behind Toris before he could answer. Toris shot him a dark look, but Ivan ignored it.

"Oh, alright, then."

"Dmitry Klimentovich, right?" Ivan said calmly.

"Yes, sir." _Duchovny's son? No wonder Kovalevskaya was talking to him earlier._

"It was good to meet you."

"You—you, too, sir." Dmitry Klimentovich was blushing slightly, and Toris wondered how old he was. He caught his father's eye from across the room and excused himself before the conversation could go anywhere else, however.

"I could have answered him," Toris muttered.

Ivan shrugged. "I overheard his question and got there first."

"Besides, suppose I did want to fight with Natalya."

"You know why you can't."

Toris sighed. "Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do, that's why I leave you in charge while I'm gone."

"Hm."

"We'll talk later, Litva."

"Fine," Toris said, deciding to go finish his work; he turned and walked away, hoping he didn't look irritated as he passed the Duchovnys.

Toris's muffled footsteps were the only sign of life in the house, total darkness pressing in on him from all sides until he reached Ivan's door. He entered without knocking, shutting the door softly behind him before crossing the room to place the papers on Ivan's desk. Only then did he turn to face the other man, illuminated by the faint moonlight as he sat, hunched over, on the couch. Toris frowned at him, not moving from the desk.

Ivan's office, which doubled as a private sitting room, was connected to his bedroom; _why_, Toris could not have said, but, well, that was Ivan. It was one of the more comfortable rooms in the house, and Toris couldn't help but be amused by the coffee table that sat before the couch—he recognized it from Ivan's old house. How the _coffee table _had survived the Revolution was anyone's guess; he doubted it had been Ivan's intention, more of a coincidence, but he'd never brought it up.

Ivan sighed at last. "Today was a mess."

"It didn't go as they had planned."

"Which _they_?"

"Either. And what's Kliment Ivanovitch planning, anyway?"

"C'mere, Litva, I need a distraction."

It was Toris's turn to sigh, knowing his question wouldn't be answered, but he obeyed, sitting next to Ivan, who pulled him into his lap immediately and buried his face in his neck. Toris was almost content to remain there, petting Ivan's soft hair, but there was a thought nagging at him.

He gently sat up, making sure Ivan was making eye contact with him, before asking, "Ivan, what am I to you?"

Ivan frowned up at him, violet eyes unreadable in the dark; he looked exhausted—worse, he looked his age, his face drawn and pale, features exaggerated by the moonlight. Combined with his nearly-white hair, he looked an old man, but he caressed Toris's face with all the gentleness of young love.

"Ah, Litva. I care about you, more than I care about most people. I want to protect you from any harm, I want to spend every moment with you, but I—I know you don't feel the same."

"I—I _do _care, you know."

"Yes, I know. But…we've never quite been lovers, have we? I can't call you my lover, no, that implies we love each other. Perhaps 'paramour' is a better option.

"I might love you, I don't know. Even after all these years, I'm not certain….But I _know _you don't love me. Part of you will always love Poland, I think."

"I don't love Poland," Toris said. "I—I care about him, too, yes, but—Feliks more than Poland, if that makes sense. It was really always that way."

"Do you care more about Ivan than Russia, then?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I think so. I—I know I trust Ivan more than I trust Russia."

"It's easier to trust people than countries, isn't it?"

"Yes….Well, I've told you my thoughts on Russia."

Ivan chuckled. "Yes, you have. Several times, most of those because you lost your temper. I remember. I apologize for the times I, too, lost my temper. I've never wanted to hurt you.

"Still, to answer your initial question…you're the man I enjoy sharing my bed with, and my heart. Don't laugh, I know how ridiculous I sound—I do wish we could be more, but you already knew that. You've known that for a long time. I don't know if we ever _can _be more, I don't know if Lithuania and Russia will ever be able to trust each other, and that will only hold Toris and Ivan back, if you'll pardon my speaking in the third person. Still, it's nice to be optimistic."

Toris considered that. "Do you…like when I mention not loving Poland?"

"More than I should. God help me, but there's a _German_ word that fits, I think—_Schadenfreude_."

"Yes, I've heard of it."

"Well, rivalry over you aside, it's not as though I've ever gotten along with Łukasiewicz, and the hatred, as I'm sure you know, is mutual."

"Can you call it rivalry?" Toris asked. "To my knowledge, Feliks has no idea. And I'm fairly certain he'd make a big deal of it if he knew."

Ivan chuckled again. "Yes, I'm afraid neither of us would ever hear the end of it—nor, likely, anyone who _can _hear. Perhaps the rivalry is more…unbalanced….As I know far more than he does. Not," he added, "that that's saying much."

"He's smarter than people give him credit for," Toris said, despite himself.

"No, he's _cleverer_ than people give him credit for. There's a difference. The latter is far more annoying. I find 'annoying' to be a very good word to describe him, actually."

"Only around people he doesn't like," Toris muttered.

Ivan laughed. "Well, I can't blame him for that, can I? I certainly hope Beilschmidt is enjoying his company."

Toris resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm sure _that _feeling is mutual, too."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot Prussia's the only person you've really ever held a grudge against."

"I've held other grudges!"

"Is that something you want to brag about? I meant, your grudge against him is….Well, frankly, it's pettier than any of your other grudges—at least, that I've observed."

"It's not _petty_. And, even if we _didn't _have that history—have you _met _him? You talk about _Feliks _being annoying—"

He was interrupted by Ivan laughing again. "You're right of course, he is a special brand of infuriating; I do find it incredibly amusing that he's been left to babysit Łukasiewicz. I wonder which of them is more insulted."

"Beilschmidt has the bigger ego, believe it or not."

"Hm….Tell you what, when we win, I'll come to you for ideas on how to humiliate him. Natasha, too, though: she's a good deal more creative. Or maybe I'll simply have him work for you. I think that would be a fitting comeuppance, don't you?"

Toris had to admit there was something incredibly satisfying about that—but he said, "He'd find ways to ruin it, no doubt."

"Ah, you're such a pessimist sometimes. No matter. We have plenty of time to think of something."

"Do we? Kliment Ivanovitch seemed a bit rushed."

"Whether the war ends in a fortnight or a decade, Beilschmidt's immortal. We can always throw him in jail or something until a more creative fancy strikes."

Toris had to laugh at that. "I think I could live with that."

"Hm…." Ivan had resumed caressing his face, not quite serious now, but not joking, either; merely absorbed in Toris.

The brunette gently grabbed his hand and brought his fingertips to his lips; surprised by the gesture, Ivan pulled his hand away, only to wrap his arms around Toris and bring him closer so he could kiss him.


	10. Army of the Damned

**_"_****_You will not be punished for your anger, you will be punished by your anger." -Buddha_**

**_Siberia_**

**_September 1941_**

It was the beginning of the fourth day of the long ride east; Dmitry Duchovny sighed and leaned his head against the cold window, watching the sky as the train sped toward the rising sun. Lithuania sat beside him, awake; Bielorus was across from them, still asleep; Uzbekistan had left their carriage several minutes ago without giving a reason. Dima didn't attempt conversation, not knowing what to say and not wanting to wake Arlovskaya. The train was mostly empty; the four of them had a car to themselves, but there were only a handful of other passengers. There had been more when they'd left Moscow, though not many, and most of them had stayed in Omsk.

The train slowly turned north, and Arlovskaya stirred as the light hit her face. Uzbekistan returned, quietly shutting the door and sitting down without disturbing the country next to her. There hadn't been any real towns since they'd left Omsk two days ago, just quiet little villages that existed mostly to maintain the railroad. The landscape was bleak, any green fading in the early autumn; the train tracks stretching infinitely ahead looked like the only change the area had seen in centuries.

Lithuania and Uzbekistan had started talking quietly to each other, but they were speaking in the countries' language so Dima tuned them out until Uzbekistan gently kicked his leg to get his attention.

"Hey, Duchovny," she said, leaning back in her seat.

Lithuania sighed softly, shaking his head at her.

"Yes?" Dima replied patiently. Neither she nor Bielorus had ever referred to him formally, and it could sometimes be hard not to let that bother him.

"You wouldn't happen to know if your father has any…extra _plans_ he hasn't told us about, would you?" She spoke casually, but her deep brown eyes were narrowed, and Dima shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

"No, I don't know. I don't think he would…."

"Hm…."

"Why?"

She and Lithuania exchanged glances. "Oh, no reason, we just know he doesn't like or trust us…."

Dima thought about that for a moment before responding. "He didn't want either of you to come…."

"No?"

"Well, he never specifically said anything that I know of, but he _did_ only name Bielorus and me." He had been surprised to find three countries waiting at the train station rather than just one, but had brushed it off fairly quickly.

"You see, Dmitry Klimentovich, that dislike and mistrust is mutual."

"I figured as much," Dima said dryly. "That sort of thing usually is."

"That's why we're here."

"That's why _you're_ here," Lithuania said; Dima turned to him, surprised. He'd been mostly silent, as usual, speaking almost exclusively to Bielorus and Uzbekistan and all but ignoring Dima.

"Right. Well, you care about her, too," Uzbekistan retorted, gesturing at Arlovskaya.

Lithuania scowled at her. "I also know she can take care of herself, and I doubt that Kliment Ivanovitch has any _surprise _waiting for us. He's not an idiot. Any ulterior motives are going to be more hidden."

"What did you think he was planning?" Dima asked.

They glanced at each other again.

"Listen," Uzbekistan said softly, leaning forward. "If your father has _any _sort of plan to keep us from returning to Moscow, we will fight back, and we. Will. Win." She sat up straight again, but she was staring intently at him; he resisted the urge to turn to Lithuania to see his face and went back to silently staring out the window.

It wasn't the first time that Dima had felt uncomfortable on the trip east, but it _was _the first time he had realized that he was outnumbered.

It was midafternoon by the time the remote prison was visible on the horizon. They had been forced to spend several hours on horseback after leaving the train behind; the countries didn't seem to mind much, but Dima, who wasn't an experienced rider, was stiff and sore and dreading the eventual return to the train.

Bielorus and Uzbekistan had ridden far ahead, chatting rapidfire about who-knew-what and occasionally racing each other over the plain; Dima had been able to follow them easily because of Uzbekistan's bright red scarf; he'd never seen her without it, though why she insisted on wearing it was a mystery to him. Their guide, whose name Dima couldn't remember, rode silently by himself, slightly ahead of where Dima and Lithuania rode nearly side by side.

Dima never knew how to talk to Lithuania; he'd always seemed distant at meetings, talking as little as possible to anyone other than his fellow countries. Still, he felt awkward in the private silence between them.

"If you thought my father was planning something, why'd you come, if not for the reason Uzbekistan said?"

Lithuania frowned at him, eyebrows slightly raised. "Russia asked me to," he admitted after a brief moment of hesitation.

"He did?"

Lithuania nodded curtly and returned to looking ahead.

"Why?"

The nation sighed. "Probably because he was concerned for his sister."

"Oh. That…makes sense, I guess. Do you really dislike my father?"

Lithuania frowned, and Dima was worried he wouldn't answer. Finally, he said, "I guess I'm mostly indifferent."

"Do you trust him more than Uzbekistan does?"

"Trust is a bit more complicated than that, you know."

"So, no."

He sighed. "No. I don't trust him at all. And he knows that."

"Why doesn't he like any of you?"

With another sigh, Lithuania simply said, "It's complicated."

"That's the most annoying answer you can give."

"It's the truth."

"It's not like we've anything to do other than talk—"

"Would, 'It's something I'd rather not talk about' satisfy you more?" asked Lithuania coolly.

Dima scowled at him. "I suppose."

They lapsed into a short silence before Dima said, "You've met a lot of other countries, haven't you?"

"Obviously." There was a quiet tension in his voice, and Dima wondered if he was annoying him.

"Including Germany, right?"

"Yes. I wouldn't say I know him, though, so don't ask," he said, glancing at Dima.

"What about Prussia?"

"What about him?"

"You know him, right?"

"We don't get along," he snapped, glaring at the landscape in front of them.

"Why not?"

Lithuania's sighs were growing more frustrated. "It's a _really _long story, alright?"

"You get along with Russia, though?"

"If I didn't, would I be here now?"

Kliment Duchovny was waiting for them outside, along with another man in a general's uniform. Toris sighed; this wasn't going to be fun. If Uzbekistan was right, and he really did plan on tricking Natalya into imprisonment, then Ivan would never be able to forgive him, and _that _would lead to all sorts of complications. If Toris was right and he merely wanted to mess with Natalya by giving her convicts as her men to lead into battle, there was still danger; Natalya could very easily start a feud with Kliment Ivanovitch, and _that _would lead to complications. That was the real reason Ivan had wanted Toris to accompany Natalya and Kovalevskaya: to keep anyone from going too far.

"I know they can both take care of themselves," he'd said. "But that's part of what worries me. Kliment Ivanovitch already doesn't like us, I don't want an all-out rivalry."

Toris pinched the bridge of his nose as he had then. Duchovny had spent much of his political career trying to control the nations living with Ivan, which had made him one of the least popular members of the government in Ivan's house.

"What's wrong?" Kliment Ivanovitch asked him.

"Just a headache," he answered, following the others inside the main building the guards lived in.

"I must say, I truly was not expecting to be so…honored…by your company. Nor Fatima Kovalevskaya, for that matter."

Toris suppressed a grimace at his insistence on using their real names. "Russia didn't think it wise to send Bielorus by herself."

"She wouldn't have been by herself—"

"With all due respect, Kliment Ivanovitch, your son is only seventeen."

"Were you expecting some kind of trouble?" Duchovny asked with a smirk.

Toris merely frowned down at him and the smirk faded.

"I assure you, I keep my promises."

"I believe you." _That's the problem_. "Though…I must ask, why have you chosen her men from here, of all places?"

They had stopped in the mess hall, which, aside from their group, was empty. Natalya was sitting on a table nearby, and Duchovny frowned at her. "I haven't. I'll let her choose."

"Lucky me," she retorted.

"Why are you wearing pants? And you," he said, turning to Kovalevskaya, "why don't you ever take that scarf off?"

Kovalevskaya shrugged and didn't answer; Natalya scoffed and said, "Did you really expect me to spend several hours on a horse wearing a _skirt_? And Uzbekistan is wearing pants, why don't you—"

"Oh, don't drag me into this more than necessary," Kovalevskaya said quickly.

The general rolled his eyes and spoke before Duchovny could. "Let's just get this over with."

"What he said," Natalya said. "Where are the men?"

Several minutes later, all the prisoners were lined up in the yard; there were fewer than eighty, by Toris's estimate. He and Kovalevskaya hung back, watching Natalya walk slowly back and forth, examining the men in the false twilight created by the gray walls surrounding them. The Duchovnys and the general were off in another corner, silent.

Kovalevskaya's scarf was the largest source of color; it wasn't hijab—she wasn't _quite _brave enough for that—but merely a headscarf knotted under her chin that would have probably gone unnoticed if she weren't in uniform. Her black hair was pulled back in two braids that went down to her waist; she was nearly as tall as Toris but she was standing on the balls of her feet, leaning forward anxiously.

"It's almost sunset, isn't it?" Toris murmured; even though Duchovny wouldn't have been able to understand him, he still didn't need to start anything between him and Kovalevskaya.

She hesitated before sighing softly. "Yes, but I have a feeling the content of this prayer is going to depend on her decision."

"You two were friendly enough earlier—"

"Nata and I? Sure, but I _know _her. She makes bad choices when she's angry. And I know what Duchovny's capable of."

Toris didn't have a response to that.

He could tell very little about the men from a distance in the near darkness; only those with extreme features stood out. There was one who Toris had a bad feeling was under the age of twenty; one man with a ravaged face missing an ear and several fingers; a behemoth of a man who he suspected stood taller than Ivan; one man who was constantly fidgeting and doing a horrible job of trying to hide it. They were almost all expressionless statues staring forward as though Natalya weren't even there. _Do they see this as an opportunity or a punishment? _Toris wondered.

Natalya had paced around them several times before saying loudly, "I'll take all of them."

Toris nearly forgot to breathe.

"Oh, God save me," Kovalevskaya breathed. "Kliment Ivanovitch will _never_—"

"_All _of them?" Kliment Duchovny said as the men started whispering amongst themselves; the handful of guards silently exchanged glances.

"Ivan is going to kill me," Toris whispered; Kovalevskaya nodded in awed agreement. They both stared in horror as Duchovny walked over to Natalya; she waved him off.

"Yes, all of them, didn't you hear me the first time?"

"But how are you going to—"

She smirked. "Oh, don't worry, I can take care of it."

"No you can't," Kovalevskaya muttered to herself. "Excuse me, Laurinaitis, I think I'm going to go pray now."

She left quickly, before he could respond.


	11. Storm

**_"_****_I am tired of people saying that poor character is the only reason people do wrong things. Actually, circumstances cause people to act a certain way. It's from those circumstances that a person's attitude is affected followed by weakening of character. Not the reverse. If we had no faults of our own, we should not take so much pleasure in noticing those in others and judging their lives as either black or white, good or bad. We all live our lives in shades of gray."_**

**_― _****_Shannon L. Alder_**

**_Warsaw_**

**_November 1941_**

It was late when Gil finally dragged himself to Łukasiewicz's house; hand pressed to his chest and grimacing in pain, he knocked as loudly as he could. Waiting was agony; every breath, every heartbeat hurt, sent flames across his chest and shoulder. He leaned against the door, struggling to stay vertical, and nearly fell when Łukasiewicz opened it.

"What the hell do _you _want?" he asked, eyebrows raised, as Gil stumbled past him; he made his way to the front sitting room and collapsed on the couch. Łukasiewicz had followed him and was leaning against the doorway.

"You didn't answer my question."

Gil sighed and regretted it instantly; there was a new pain in his side now, and he looked down and saw his shirt stained dark red. _Well, shit_. "Got into a fight," he muttered.

"I can see that. That's still not answering—"

"Need help."

It was the blond's turn to sigh. "Try not to get any blood on the furniture, alright?"

Gil staggered after Łukasiewicz into the kitchen, trying not to shiver though, without his shirt on, it was difficult. He sat down stiffly at the table as the other man turned to the sink to wash his hands.

"You've been quiet tonight," Gil remarked, feeling much steadier now that Łukasiewicz had given him some morphine—he'd decided not to ask where he'd gotten it. Some things were probably better left unasked.

"I wasn't aware you wanted to have a conversation while I was stitching up your side. What happened, anyway?" he replied, turning around as he dried his hands, leaning against the counter.

"Bastard caught me off guard, shot me from behind. Well, I turned around pretty quickly after that, hoping to surprise _him_ and—well, here's what concerns me, he was, for a minute."

"Maybe he's smart enough to not think too much during a fight. Or he didn't realize he'd shot you."

"Eh, that could be, I guess," Gil said, bemused.

"So you two fought and he stabbed you."

"Yeah. Pretty much. It was dark, I couldn't see his face….I _almost _shot him, I was _this _close, but he hit my arm and knocked my gun out of my hand, and then I knocked _his_ gun and…and he ran." As he said that, he realized there was something slightly _off _about the weight of the gun in his belt—but maybe it was just the morphine getting to his head.

Łukasiewicz frowned thoughtfully. "But who's waiting in the streets at night to attack you?"

"I dunno," Gil muttered, his hand, as in a dream, moving to touch the gun. There was definitely something wrong; he drew it slowly, aware that Łukasiewicz was watching intently. He frowned down at it, trying to figure out—

"Ah, _Christ_," he said, when he realized what it was.

Łukasiewicz held his hand out silently, and Gil handed the empty gun to him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back; Łukasiewicz muttered an oath under his breath.

"I don't like asking you for things if I don't have to," the blond said softly after he'd calmed down, "but I need you to do something for me."

"What?" Gil asked, though he already had an idea of what it was he wanted.

Łukasiewicz met Gil's gaze, and a shiver ran down his spine as he realized that he hadn't relaxed at all. "I want you to stop them. I want them out of my city," he said before returning the Soviet-made gun to Gil. "I want them _gone_."

Hanna was struggling to stay awake; it was time for her daily lessons with Beilschmidt and Irena, and Irena was being as frustrating as ever about it. It had been a long time since Hanna had learned anything other than the limits of Beilschmidt's patience, because Irena just _wouldn't _learn. Hanna had no doubt now that it was very much a conscious decision on her part, and suspected that Beilschmidt had figured it out, too, but he went on holding lessons, anyway. More than once, Hanna had wondered if he was doing it for her sake, to keep her away from Wagner, if only for a little while. It was a selfish thought, certainly, but Beilschmidt seemed to like her—not in the way Wagner liked her, the way that made her skin crawl, but in a way that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, someone actually cared about her and was looking out for her. He made her feel safe, though there were times when that unnerved her a bit, too; she didn't _want _to feel safe around any of the Germans, she couldn't let her guard down around them, but…well, if Beilschmidt could tolerate anything Irena said without hurting her, surely he could handle Hanna at _her _worst.

He was slouched in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, as Irena glared at him from across the desk, her arms crossed. _Just swallow your pride and cooperate for once_, Hanna thought, but she remained silent. No need to get in the middle when they were both in bad moods.

"I still don't see the _point_," Irena said after a tense minute. "You speak Polish, it's all you _do _speak with the two of us—even Hanna Ratajczakówna, who actually has learned German. It's not stopped me from doing anything you want me to do, so why bother? It's a waste of time."

Beilschmidt sighed. "Because I'm not the only person here, if you haven't noticed, and I'm the only one who'll let you get away with speaking Polish all the time." He sounded tired, and Hanna thought he looked paler than usual…but maybe that was just the light.

"You also don't ever let me talk to anyone else—"

He frowned at her. "Would you _like_ to spend more time with General Wagner or Doctor Zimmer or—"

"I'm just saying that you shouldn't try to say that I should be careful because of them when you won't let me anywhere near them."

_More like he's keeping them away from you_, Hanna thought. _You could be grateful for that, at least_.

Beilschmidt shook his head slightly. "You know, there's a _reason_ I do that."

"Why? Because you don't want Wagner thinking you tolerate my talking back?"

He sighed. "For once, can you focus on the lesson and not on being rude and annoying?"

"Why? You don't care anymore than I do."

"You ask too many questions," he grumbled.

"Maybe you should answer them, then."

His frown deepened, and Hanna felt a twinge of nervousness. She'd never known him to lose his temper, but Irena didn't know when to shut up. "Maybe you should remember that you work for me, not the other way around," he said sharply.

_Don't keep fighting him, don't, it won't end well, _Hanna thought, but Irena could not read minds and Beilschmidt's response only infuriated her further. "Like I could bloody well _forget_," she snapped. "But you and I both know that's only because you wanted to spite Wagner—"

"I've told you before, you should be more formal—"

"It's not as though you are."

He was glaring at her. "I know him."

"So do I."

"I wasn't aware you were so familiar with him, then."

"It's not as though he's here now."

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't be respectful—"

"I'll respect him when he respects me," she retorted, eyes flashing.

Hanna would have given anything to be somewhere else. _Stop, just stop now before it's too late. _Her own hands were shaking, but Irena didn't betray any fear she may have been feeling. She met Beilschmidt's gaze with a determination that filled Hanna with dread; so she really did want to pick a fight with him.

Beilschmidt seemed to be weighing his options; Hanna wondered what he would have done were he not so tired.

"Listen," he said, quiet but stern, "you can either cooperate or not. This is your last warning."

She wavered, and, for a brief moment, Beilschmidt seemed to relax; Hanna thought she would give up then, but instead she said softly, "Or what?"

Beilschmidt slowly stood, but she wasn't finished.

"You won't hurt me. There'd be no point in giving me more work, I couldn't do it."

"Do you really want to test either of those?" he replied, but Hanna realized she had a point. More importantly, she understood what Irena was trying to prove: pushing Beilschmidt to the edge wouldn't have any real consequences, at least not for her. It was a gamble that Hanna wouldn't have made for the world, but it looked like she might just win.

Irena stood at that, and Hanna was reminded that they were about the same height; sure, Beilschmidt had more muscle and was a trained soldier, but Irena was fast and she was probably crazy, too.

"If you wanted to hurt me, you would have by now," she said quietly.

His eyes narrowed; Hanna was finding it harder to breathe.

"You're right," he admitted. "I won't hurt you. But I know Doctor Zimmer has been looking for help lately."

There was a glint in his eyes Hanna had only seen once before—when he had first told Wagner that Irena was working for him. Irena was in dangerous territory; Hanna had no doubt he meant it.

"That's a shame. I didn't know he spoke Polish."

"He doesn't. Maybe that'll help you finally learn German."

"Maybe I'll just walk out of here and not come back."

Hanna gasped despite herself, but neither of them noticed.

"You wouldn't," Beilschmidt said. "You don't have anywhere to go."

She shrugged. "I'm sure I'll figure something out."

For several moments, they glared at each other in silence; Beilschmidt was the one to break it.

"If that's the case, then leave. And don't expect any sympathy from me when you come crawling back."

Irena's response was to turn on her heel and march out of his office.

Beilschmidt sighed loudly and sat back down, looking like he was barely awake. Hanna stared at his desk blankly, not sure how to respond.

After a moment, he said to her, "Hanna, I need you to lie for me again."

"You—you do?"

He nodded weakly. "If she comes back, I don't want her to deal with Wagner."

"Do you think she will?"

Another sigh. "I don't know. I honestly don't know."

Hanna frowned at that, quietly hoping that Irena wouldn't return.

"She does have somewhere to go," she said softly; Beilschmidt glanced up at her, and she clarified, "She'll probably go to her mother. She'll…she'll sneak out sometimes to see her."

Beilschmidt sighed, rubbing his temples. "Has she always been so frustrating?"

"As long as I've known her, yes."

"She hasn't been doing anything else behind my back, has she?"

Hanna prayed that her panic wasn't showing. "Not—not to my knowledge, no," she answered, remembering the papers being consumed by the flame. Irena had never actually come up with a favor as she'd promised that night, but Hanna couldn't tell Beilschmidt _now_, it would look bad that she'd known for so long. In any case, while she loathed Irena, she didn't want to be the cause of her death, or worse….

"Good," he muttered. "I knew she was all talk…."

That, Hanna thought, was the scary thing about Irena.

Olga Nowakowa was pacing furiously, hands clasped behind her back; her daughter, Marta, was sitting sideways in a chair off to the side, her legs hanging off one end, reading a newspaper indifferently. Grobinsky was standing before her, hoping he wasn't too sweaty or nervous. He wasn't afraid of _her_, of course, but she had rather frightening connections.

They were in her basement, this time; it was nice, as far as basements went—it was certainly larger than he'd expected—but there was something about the dim yellow lights that made even Nowakowa and her daughter seem grotesque; and there was something ominous about meeting in a basement in the first place.

"Of all the foolish things you could have done," she said at last, her voice surprisingly calm.

"It won't happen again," he promised quickly.

"If it does, I will not help you. Nor will Kliment Ivanovitch."

"You _told_ him?"

"Of course I did." She glared at him, disgusted. "Not only did you attack someone you knew full well you couldn't kill—someone too important to take hostage, even—_you lost your gun_. Now they know we're here—"

"They'd be idiots if they didn't think we had spies in Warsaw," Marta commented coolly, still reading the paper. "We'd be even more foolish to think Beilschmidt didn't suspect you in particular, all the time he spends with Feliks Łukasiewicz. We know that Beilschmidt and Wagner dislike each other, and we know that Łukasiewicz dislikes you and Wagner; I'm sure your name has been brought up in conversation between Łukasiewicz and Beilschmidt more than once."

"He dislikes Beilschmidt, too," Olga Nowakowa retorted.

"I daresay he dislikes Ivan Braginsky more," Marta said, folding the paper and sitting up properly. "I've heard rumors of Poles and Germans teaming up to fight Partisans in other parts of the country. We can't assume that Łukasiewicz is content to watch us and the Germans fight amongst ourselves. Whoever wins that fight is going to influence him significantly, of course he wants a say in the outcome. Beilschmidt's an idiot if he blindly trusts Łukasiewicz, yes, but I don't think it would be hard for him to find proof that you and Father had been under formal investigation before. That alone is damning."

Nowakowa considered that for a moment. "Yes, and Łukasiewicz was one of the people leading that investigation….He wasn't happy with how it turned out….Perhaps I should have focused more on Beilschmidt than Wagner…."

Grobinsky frowned, realizing they probably wouldn't be returning to him anytime soon. He wasn't convinced that courting Beilschmidt at this point was a good idea.

"Maybe we can discredit Łukasiewicz," he said, almost to himself; both women were staring at him and he continued somewhat nervously. "I don't mean in Wagner's eyes, I think he'll mistrust him just because of who he is. But if we make _Beilschmidt_ question his reliability….I don't know exactly how we'd do that," he admitted, "maybe connect him to the rebels somehow. In a way that doesn't make anyone wonder how _we _know so much, of course."

Nowakowa grinned, which was terrifying in the poor light. "My dear _General-polkovnik_," she said, "that's precisely what rumors are for."

**_Translations and A/N:_**

_General-polkovnik _(Генерал-полковник) - "General-colonel," a rank ~equivalent to Lieutenant General in the US Army.

Any Russian used will be the English transliteration for sake of legibility (for those who don't know the Russian alphabet), though the Cyrillic spelling will be provided in the translations (feel free to correct me, too, as I am nowhere near fluent in Russian).


	12. Progress

"_**It is far better to endure patiently a smart which nobody feels but yourself, than to commit a hasty action whose evil consequences will extend to all connected with you." ―Charlotte Brontë**_

_**Warsaw**_

_**November 1941**_

Gil was sitting at his desk, trying to fix the bandage on his side in moonlight and firelight while drunk and finding it incredibly difficult. The electricity wasn't working, so he was left cold and in the dark, hoping that when he cut the old, blood-soaked bandage off, he wouldn't cut the stitches Łukasiewicz had hesitantly given him—he had thought that Gil would heal fast enough he wouldn't need them, but then Gil had shown him how deep the wound was—or, worse, his own skin.

He'd been successful in that regard, at least, thank God, but now he couldn't find the damn tape; as he fumbled around on his desk looking for it, he heard the door open and shut quietly.

What Irena must have thought of the sight of him—bedraggled, his undershirt rolled up as high as he could keep it, exposing the wounds in his chest and side, his desk a complete disarray littered with empty beer bottles—he couldn't have said. She did seem surprised, but, for once, offered no commentary, and lingered by the door.

He sat up straight and adjusted his shirt—keeping it clear of the wound in his side—so he looked a little more dignified before saying, "You came back."

She glanced away. "Yes."

"Your mother talk some sense into you?"

She started slightly and didn't respond.

"Hanna told me," he said dryly. "If that is the case, she's a smart woman. You'd do well to listen to her. And Hanna, of course."

Her expression darkened but she remained uncharacteristically quiet.

"Hey, since you're here you can help me with this," he said more cheerfully than he'd really meant to sound.

Irena frowned at him and seemed to shrink away.

"What, are you afraid of blood or something?"

"No," she answered with her usual defiance, though she didn't move.

"Well, then, c'mere."

She hesitated before walking stiffly to his desk. Once she was closer, Gil could see that her face was pale and that her eyes were red and puffy. Her thick curly hair was a mess, and Gil gently took her shaking hand in his.

"I'm not actually that drunk," he said quietly; she simply nodded in response, and he let go. "If you really are uncomfortable with blood, that's fine, you'd probably only make it worse in that case…."

"No, no it's—I'm fine. Blood doesn't bother me." She took a deep breath. "What—what do you need me to do?"

"There's a roll of tape somewhere on my desk, can you—"

She picked it up and offered it to him.

"Alright. So. Now, I hold the bandage, and you tape, alright?" She nodded again, and he stretched the new bandage over the cut. "Just around the sides—like that, yes, not too much, don't waste it—yes, thank you," he said, rolling his shirt all the way down and realizing he'd need to take care of the bullet wound in his chest on his own—he couldn't let her see that he'd been shot in the heart and was still relatively fine.

"You're welcome," she replied softly, hesitantly.

"You're lucky Wagner was gone all day, if he'd noticed that you weren't here…."

Irena's face reddened, and she bowed her head before saying, "I—I know. I'm sorry."

Gil frowned at her. _Her mother must've told her to be cooperative or something. Well, at least she listens to _somebody. Out loud, he said, "I'm curious, by the way. How d'you sneak out of here to see your mother?"

"I—I do it when you're away."

"Is that so? Well, I guess I can't act too surprised at that. Hey, don't go harassing Hanna for telling me about that, alright?"

"I won't," she promised.

"Good." Several awkward seconds of silence passed between them before Gil sighed. He suddenly felt exhausted. "We'll talk more in the morning, alright? I'm still not happy with you about earlier."

She nodded, hesitated, then spun on her heel and quickly walked to her room.

Gil sighed again, looking at the empty bottles and dreading the next morning.

Zimmer's office was in the basement, and it was _cold_; Gil almost wished he'd worn a coat. It was also devoid of color and so organized he couldn't help but wonder if it was ever actually used. No one could use a desk without stuff accumulating, it just wasn't possible.

"I do apologize," the doctor said, motioning for Gil to sit down.

He did so hesitantly. "It's out of your control," Gil replied with a politeness he didn't really want to use. _You could have suggested meeting somewhere else, though_.

"I know the two of us aren't on the best of terms," Zimmer said mournfully, "I do hope to remedy that."

"You wanted to talk to me about Irena," Gil said. For the last several days, she'd been working as Zimmer's assistant, and had remained blessedly quiet about everything. Part of him wondered if something was wrong, but mostly he was just glad someone had finally convinced her to shut up.

"Yes, I did. Are you sure you want her back?"

Gil's surprise must have been obvious, but he recovered himself and, eyes narrowed in suspicion, asked, "Why?"

"Oh, she's been wonderfully useful these past few days. I admit, I was hesitant at first, but she's surprisingly clever. Of course, I must give credit where it's due—she obviously owes quite a bit to your teaching. She was able to pick up on medical terms remarkably quickly—unless you'd taught her—?"

"No, I didn't teach her any…medical terms. I hadn't seen any point in it."

"Well, regardless, you're frankly a marvelous teacher—at least, with German. I suppose it can vary across subjects…."

"I'm not thinking of opening a school, if that's what you're getting at," Gil said dryly. _And I thought she went out of her way to be a horrible student…something must have gotten through to her, at least_.

Zimmer shrugged, nonchalant. "No, you do have better things to do, after all. But let's return to my original question: do you want her back, or can I keep her?"

Gil frowned and leaned back in the chair, not sure how to answer.

"I assure you, I'll find someone else for you, if you want compensation. I just don't think _I'll _be able to find someone like her. Not anyone who's so hardworking, certainly."

_ Hardworking, huh? _Gil thought. Out loud, he said, "I don't know…she's been pretty useful to me, too." That was a lie, but Zimmer was acting a little too nice, and it had set him on edge. That, and he wanted to talk to Irena about her work ethic and knowledge of German. He was clearly missing out on something. "I'll have to think about it."

"I understand," Zimmer said, though he sounded disappointed. "_I'm _hesitant to give her up, and I've only had her for a few days." He chuckled, and Gil forced a smile in return.

"I know this is changing the subject," he said, "but what do you think of Olga Nowakowa?"

"I think any man who wholeheartedly trusts a woman is a fool," Zimmer answered simply with a smile, "whether that woman is a spy or not."

Snow flurries whirled around wildly outside, illuminated by grimy yellow lights, the wind slamming into the building and howling in protest when it couldn't get in. Irena had lit a fire, Gil saw when he opened the door to his office, and he was grateful for its warmth and light. She was standing beside the desk, looking like she'd stopped pacing when he'd entered.

"Sit down, I need to talk to you," Gil ordered, not harshly, and she obeyed silently, her hands clasped in her lap. He sat on the desk, so he was both closer to and taller than her. "I had a conversation with Doctor Zimmer this afternoon," he said, "because he enjoyed having you work for him so much, he wants you to _keep_ working for him."

Irena's face paled and she fidgeted—but didn't speak.

"But that's not what _really_ caught my attention. See, he was also impressed with your hard work and your knowledge of German. Now, I'll let the hard work part slide, given the circumstances. What _bothers _me is your apparent knowledge of German—and I don't doubt you've picked some up just from being exposed to it, whether you want to or not, but I doubt you've picked up enough if you're so determined _not _to learn it, that Zimmer was impressed by it. Certainly not in the span of a few days."

She was obviously struggling to sit still.

"What I want to know," Gil went on, "is why you lied to me."

"I…I wanted to annoy you," Irena said quietly. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Is that really the only reason?"

There was a moment of hesitation before she said, "Yes."

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not convinced."

She was clearly struggling to come up with a response; he continued, "I also haven't made up my mind about whether or not you should continue working for Doctor Zimmer…."

The blood drained from her face; she stared down at her hands and said softly, "I—I was afraid of looking too smart. I'm sorry, truly, I—"

Gil silenced her with a wave of his hand. "Just don't lie to me again, or you _will _work for Doctor Zimmer, got it?"

She nodded. "Yes, yes, I—thank you."

"It's late; you should go to bed," he said, glancing sideways at her.

She nodded and quickly walked out; he sighed once he was alone and moved to his chair. Leaning back, he rolled his shirt up and looked down. The cut in his side had mostly scabbed over, and he supposed he should remove the stitches, but that could wait for tomorrow. He was more interested in the bullet wound in his chest; with morbid curiosity, he stretched the skin apart, breaking the scab. Both injuries would leave scars, but he doubted either would last long—a year at most. Neither really hurt anymore, except when he walked up stairs, but he was keeping an eye on them; he hadn't told either Wagner or Zimmer about them, and didn't need either of them to know he'd been hurt.

He opened the top drawer of his desk, frowning at the Soviet gun sitting in plain sight. He could have sworn that he'd covered it with letters from Munich that he hadn't had time to read earlier….

He shook his head; he was tired, he must have just thrown the papers on his desk and forgotten—it was certainly messy enough they could be hidden in plain sight.

But that was another thing that would have to wait for tomorrow.

_**Moscow**_

Toris felt as though he'd had a constant headache since September. Natalya had gone out of her way to undermine every single order Kliment Duchovny had tried to give her; she'd appointed one of the former prisoners her second in command to spite him and his friend, General Starkov, who was supposed to be her second in command—she'd pushed him aside and seemed to barely acknowledge his existence, to the fury of both him and Duchovny.

Ivan seemed to be conveniently busy and not at home, and Toris had no idea what he thought of any of it. He wasn't fond of Duchovny, true, but that didn't mean he wanted Natalya constantly pissing him off.

Starkov and both Kliment and Dmitry Duchovny were seated at Ivan's dining room table, as was Vladislav Zaslavsky, the horribly scarred man whom Natalya had made second in command. They and Toris were waiting for Natalya, who had been off doing…something. Toris had admitted he didn't tend to ask where she went when Kliment Duchovny had asked where she was.

Toris could tell Kliment Duchovny didn't like him, and it was making him increasingly nervous. The man had more blood on his hands than all of Natalya's criminals-turned-soldiers combined, and, while Ivan had promised he wouldn't let Duchovny do anything too drastic, it was a terrible idea to put all of one's faith in Ivan, especially when his government got involved.

Dmitry Duchovny was trying to hold a conversation with Zaslavsky, but the latter was even more distant than usual; Toris suspected he was on edge. He should have been, of course; neither Kliment Duchovny nor General Starkov would hesitate to kill him or worse, and neither made their dislike of him a secret. He couldn't say for sure, though; Zaslavsky was nearly impossible to read most of the time.

At last, Natalya entered, Kovalevskaya in tow; neither were in uniform, to the obvious disapproval of Kliment Ivanovitch and General Starkov.

"You're late," Kliment Duchovny said, eyes narrow.

"You're the guest, so you're here early," she retorted, sitting between Zaslavsky and Dmitry Klimentovich. Kovalevskaya sat next to Toris, between him and General Starkov.

Kliment Ivanovitch's lips thinned but he didn't respond.

"You're probably wondering why I asked you to come today," she said, leaning back in her chair. "I know you want me to head west and join some Partisans. I'm here to tell you that's not going to happen."

"Oh?" Kliment Ivanovitch replied. "Why's that, exactly?"

Toris had to refrain from sighing. Here she goes, he thought.

Natalya took a deep breath before answering. "Because, first of all, we're not ready, and, second of all, even if we were, I've not been training the men in guerilla tactics—"

"What's the real reason?" Kliment Ivanovitch snapped.

She glared at him. "You know damn well what the real reason is."

"I don't," General Starkov said, earning him a dark look from both Natalya and Kliment Ivanovitch.

"He wants me to go to Warsaw," Natalya said after a moment. "Which is the most terrible idea I've ever heard for several reasons—"

Kliment Ivanovitch rolled his eyes. "Disliking Feliks Łukasiewicz is not a valid reason."

"The fact that I don't like him has nothing to do with anything," she retorted. "If anything, it's the fact that he doesn't like me that's concerning. Or, you know, the fact that Pr—Gilbert Beilschmidt doesn't like me."

Zaslavsky's hazel eyes narrowed slightly, but Toris seemed to be the only one to notice.

"You're not afraid of him, are you?" asked Kliment Ivanovitch with a sneer.

"Afraid of him? No. Afraid of some of the people on his side…."

"Why do you want her to go to Warsaw, anyway?" Toris asked before Kliment Ivanovitch could respond. "Feliks Łukasiewicz is under house arrest, and you—we—already have Olga Nowakowa and General-polkovnik Grobinsky there. It doesn't seem worth the risk of her being caught." Unless that's what—no, even he wouldn't go so far.

Kliment Ivanovitch frowned at him. "Are you suggesting she'd talk if she were caught? She's seemed quite adamant about her loyalty 'til now, you know."

"I'd certainly like to avoid being tortured," Natalya said. "Besides, my presence could be seen as—"

"As what? An act of hostility? We're at war with them, if you haven't forgotten."

"Of course I haven't forgotten. How could I? I'm far more aware of—attached to certain—" She was stumbling, but Toris knew what she wanted to say. Even from a distance, she has an idea of what her people are going through.

"She's too important to put in such a dangerous position at this point," Kovalevskaya said coolly. "Better to keep her close until we're certain of victory, or close enough to certain it's no longer a risk. It's too early to start spreading your most powerful players across the board where you can't help them, Kliment Ivanovitch."

Dmitry Klimentovich leaned back thoughtfully. "She's right," he said before his father could speak. "She's too important to work as a Partisan, at least at this point."

"For the most part, the Germans are keeping their…most powerful players, so to speak, close as well," Toris said. This would be much easier if we were allowed to tell Zaslavsky everything.

"There are exceptions, I believe," Kliment Ivanovitch replied dryly.

"Yes. Ludwig Beilschmidt is spending a great deal of time in Italy and Tino Väinämöinen has been seen in Leningrad," Kovalevskaya said. "What of it?"

"Mircea Ionescu has been seen here and there," Toris admitted, "but I believe he's more or less acting independently."

"And Gilbert Beilschmidt's in Warsaw," General Starkov said. "That's four, from what we've mentioned, not including the Vargases. And we've only got one powerful player, as you've put it, out on the board so far, and he's only out there sometimes. Maybe Warsaw is a bad idea, but you getting involved isn't, Bye—Natalya Ivanovna."

Even he almost forgot, Toris thought with some amusement.

"I thought that's what you wanted, anyway?" Kliment Ivanovitch added.

"I never said I didn't want to be involved," she snapped, "I said I thought going to Warsaw was a terrible idea."

"You could still work with Partisans," Dmitry Klimentovich said, bemused, "just much closer than Warsaw. That way you'd be safe from the other…powerful players, and close enough that if something were to happen…."

"There are advantages to one of us working with Partisans, you know," Kovalevskaya said softly in the countries' language. "None of the countries allied with Germany would need to know, unless you accidentally stumbled on Romania or something."

"And you could take him in a fight, I think," Toris said, ignoring the dirty looks the three of them were getting from Kliment Ivanovitch and General Starkov.

"I thought you didn't want me to go?" Natalya said, eyebrow raised.

"Oh, I still think you're an idiot," Kovalevskaya said, "but if you're going to do something, you might as well…well, do something."

"Don't look at me, I wanted to stay out of this mess altogether, remember?" Toris replied at the same time.

Natalya sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "What will Vanya say?"

"Probably the same thing I've been saying, but with more warnings about those two," Kovalevskaya answered, glancing briefly at the General and elder Duchovny. "You're an idiot, but you've got a couple good points and I know better than to stop you. Unlike your brother can, though, I'm going to insist on going with you."

Natalya frowned at her thoughtfully. "Thank you," she said after a moment; then, returning her attention to the humans at the table, she said, "I'll gladly work as a Partisan, but Fatima Kovalevskaya wants to come with us."

Kliment Ivanovitch hesitated.

"It would boost our numbers to three," General Starkov mused. "Though they wouldn't be quite as spread out as I would have liked. Though, I must ask, Byel—Natalya Ivanovna, you've got a rather large number of men. What do you plan on doing with all of them?"

She leaned back, thinking. "Half can go to you, if you want them," she decided after a moment, "though I'll choose which half. If my brother wants any, he's welcome, too."

Zaslavsky nodded in approval, and General Starkov bowed his head in acceptance.

"Very well," the general said, "but only if I choose where you'll be based."

Natalya's deep blue eyes narrowed. "Fine," she answered. "As long as it's within reason."

"Oh, I wouldn't have it any other way," Kliment Ivanovitch said, standing. "Now, if we're finished…."

"I think we are," Natalya said quietly, still sitting.

Kliment Ivanovitch frowned at her before nodding curtly and leaving, his son and General Starkov close behind.

Zaslavsky lingered. "Which half will be going with General Starkov, if you don't mind my asking?" he said after their footsteps faded.

Natalya frowned at him. "Not you, if that's what you're worried about."

"Not for a moment," he said smoothly. "I have complete faith in you."

"Hm," was Natalya's response. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Shall I tell the other men?"

"Not yet. You may leave, however," she said indifferently; he nodded respectfully before silently going.

As soon as she couldn't hear his footsteps, Kovalevskaya said, "I don't trust him."

"You probably shouldn't."

"What was he arrested for, anyway?" Toris asked.

Natalya frowned. "Murder, I think, but it was a long time ago."

Kovalevskaya shook her head incredulously. "Shit like this is why I want to go with you, you know."

"Oh, I know. Vanya probably wouldn't be happy about any of this without you." Natalya shrugged. "We'll just have to see what happens."

Toris suppressed a sigh. Odds were, he was going to be the one to tell Ivan about all this nonsense, which meant he was going to be the one who would have to deal with Ivan's reaction to being told about the nonsense.

Kovalevskaya and Natalya were still talking when he quietly excused himself and escaped to his office, where he started pacing as best he could in the cramped room.

There was a part of him—and it was a foolish part—that wished Natalya had decided to go to Warsaw, so that he could go with. It wouldn't have worked anyway, he had to remind himself, he was too important—he saw too much of Ivan's paperwork, knew too much about the government—for him to leave Moscow until the war was over…or Moscow fell. He wasn't sure what the odds of that were, though, so he didn't focus on it.

All he could do was hope that Natalya knew what she was doing before she made a mess of everything.


	13. Confessions

"_**For I have known them all already, known them all:**_

_**Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,**_

_**I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;**_

_**I know the voices dying with a dying fall**_

_**Beneath the music from a farther room,**_

_** So how should I presume?" **_

–_**T.S. Eliot**_

_**Warsaw**_

_**January 1942**_

Olga Nowakowa lay in her bed, her blankets covering her naked body, as she silently watched Wagner dress. He didn't say anything to her, not even to apologize for waking her as the golden dawn slowly spread out across the horizon, visible from a crack in the curtains; when she asked him what was wrong, he sighed.

"Nothing, really, just another argument with Beilschmidt."

"Mm…c'mere," she murmured, patting the mattress, and he sat next to her. The shape of the curve of her waist was visible even under the blankets, and he traced it gently, over and over again, before speaking.

"It's just so frustrating," he said. "I want to like him, and I want him to like me, but he's so…."

"Frustrating?" she supplied with some amusement; Wagner bowed his head slightly.

"Yeah, that's one word for it…."

"Don't worry too much about him, you'll drive yourself mad," she said, slowly sitting up, letting the blankets slip off of her, as she brushed her fingertips along his cheek.

"Maybe," he admitted; she leaned closer to him and he kissed her, his hand following the curve of her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, before he broke away reluctantly. "But I really shouldn't stay here much longer…."

"Will you come back tonight?" she asked.

"Maybe."

"You always say that when you want to say 'no,'" she replied, pouting.

He couldn't help smiling, and traced her lips gently before replying, "I don't want to be rude."

She laughed at that. "Don't you know that the most polite answer is the honest one?"

He shook his head slightly, amused. "Not always."

"I can see through it, anyway, so what's the point?"

"Keeping you happy, though apparently it's not worth it."

"Oh, I almost forgot!" she cried, blue eyes wide. "I didn't want to tell you last night, I didn't want to ruin the mood, but I heard a rumor you might be interested in."

"Oh?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yes," she said earnestly, "there's a family that's been helping the resistance. I can give you more information, let me just get dressed and I'll write it down." She slid gracefully out of bed then, and it was Wagner's turn to watch her dress hastily. He was in love with the way she looked in the morning, he realized. She looked human, without any makeup, her hair a mess.

She slipped a piece of paper in his pocket before he'd registered that she was actually dressed; her hands on his shoulders, she leaned down to kiss him. "Come back tonight."

He stood and kissed her in return. "Maybe," he said with a smile.

Something that might have been annoyance flickered across her face and was gone. She smiled back and let him leave without another word.

Gil frowned at the sky outside his window; the dark blues of twilight spread slowly across it, stealing color from the world as the first stars appeared. He was waiting impatiently for Irena to come back from running an errand for him. He didn't normally like sending her off by herself, but he'd been too busy to do it himself, and, in any case, it had turned out to be something of a blessing in disguise.

Some blessing. He still wasn't sure how to respond to his discovery; all he knew was that he should respond. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was certainly going to be an unpleasant conversation.

Time passed, and Gil waited, static. The door opened; floorboards creaked underfoot; the fire popped and a log shifted.

Gil turned slowly to face her. She was outlined by the fire behind her; it made her look as though she were glowing. Her face was hard to make out, but she obeyed silently when he told her to sit down.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. She waited.

"Imagine my surprise," he said coldly, "when I came back to the office today and found…certain papers missing. Very important papers. And at first I thought that perhaps I had misplaced them, lost them somewhere on my desk. But then I remembered something.

"I'd put them in a secret drawer. So I opened the drawer, and do you know what I found there?"

"No, sir," she said, as quiet as Hanna—as quiet as she had been the past several weeks.

"Nothing."

She didn't respond.

"And I thought to myself, hey, maybe I did lose them. But then it occurred to me that I've misplaced quite a few important papers since last February, without ever finding them. So I went to Hanna. Because, you know, I was thinking: it's always the quiet ones. It's always the quiet ones who know things. You always know when a loud person is in the room, but quiet people…quiet people get forgotten about. And so they hear things and see things they shouldn't. Don't they?"

"I—I suppose so."

"Now she wouldn't say anything at first, why, I can't imagine. You've done nothing to earn her loyalty. But I told her just how important these papers were, and she hesitated, and then…and then she was a bit more willing to talk. Do you want to know what she said?"

Irena didn't respond; her face might as well have belonged to a statue.

"She said that she knew you had taken papers before. She didn't know which ones, of course, because she knows better than to get involved with someone like you. But she knew you'd stolen some, and that was all the information I needed."

Still no response.

"I need them back."

A moment of hesitation. "I don't have them."

He'd been afraid of that. "Then where are they?"

"I don't know." Her voice was mechanical, forced.

"You don't know." His own voice was cold, acidic; he wasn't entirely convinced he was the one speaking. "Isn't that convenient."

"Not really."

"I will tolerate a lot of things," he said, standing, pacing behind his desk. "I have tolerated a lot from you. But this is where I draw the line. I need the papers back."

"I don't know where they are."

"Who did you give them to?"

"I didn't give them to anyone." She sounded surprised, as though the thought had never occurred to her.

Gil didn't believe that for a second. "Really? If you didn't give them to someone, then what the hell did you do with them? How do I know it's really your mother you've been sneaking off to visit?" He should have seen that from the beginning, he supposed, but it was too late now.

"Who else would I see?" Her voice was slightly higher than usual, and Gil smiled, just a little. He'd found the crack in her defense.

"The person you've given the papers to. Maybe tomorrow I should go and see for myself."

"You leave my mother out of this!" she snapped, standing. "She's got no idea about it, she'd never think it was a good idea, either, she'd try to keep me from doing it, which is why I haven't told her but—but leave her out of it!"

Gil's back was to her; his smile grew. It was the quiet ones who knew things, but it was the loud ones who actually gave the answers.

"Who'd you give the papers to?" he asked again.

"You want to know what I did with your damn papers? I burned them. I burned all of them, so you couldn't have them—so nobody would ever have them." Her voice was quiet, rushed. "And Hanna Ratajczakówna knew—she's not nearly as complacent as you think she is, your 'quiet ones' never are. She never helped me, no, but she never told you everything, either. There's a lot she's not telling you, you know, though maybe you'd pick up on some of those things if you paid attention—or," she said, mockingly, "if you were smart enough to know better than to leave important paperwork on your desk where anyone could see."

Gil turned back to her, not sure how to respond.

She continued. "And before you ask, no, I'm not part of any resistance, I'd die before working for the Russians, it's not Wagner trying to sabotage you somehow. I'm working for my own damn self, thank you very much, and you know what else? If there is such a thing as Hell, you deserve to rot in it—the whole lot of you, as far as I'm concerned, but you and Wagner and Zimmer in particular."

The smile had long since vanished. "If I were anyone else," he said quietly, "you'd be dead by now."

"Oh, I know. If you were anyone else, you'd have let those other soldiers kill me a year ago and not thought twice about it. But no, you have to piss Wagner off, and don't you dare—don't you ever pretend that there's another reason for keeping me here, for having anything to do with Hanna."

"You don't know why I do anything," he hissed. "I've done nothing but look after you two, though Lord knows you barely deserve it—"

"You don't look after Hanna," she sneered. "You may say you do, for whatever reason, but if you truly looked after her—well. Why don't you go to her room right now and see if she's there. And when you come back to tell me that she's not, I'll tell you where she is—but you already know. And maybe you've been lying to yourself for some reason—maybe you'd like to think he'd never do that to someone so young, maybe you'd like to think he'd never fuck a Jew. But you know—you've always known, and don't you ever, ever, say that you didn't."

She stood, waiting for a response, but all Gil could do was stare at her, waiting for one to come to him.

The full moon was bright enough that Hanna was working by its light alone when Wagner finally returned. She stood as he closed the door, forcing herself not to look up at him as his footsteps approached. He paused behind her before sitting at the desk with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, shoulders slumped.

"Ah, Anja," he murmured, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb. "How are you?" he asked in his horribly-accented Polish.

"I—I'm well, sir, how—how are you?"

"Tired," was his initial response, but then he sighed. "Anja, I—I think I did something today that I shouldn't have."

All she could manage to say was, "Oh?"

His voice growing softer with every word, he answered, "Yes…I—well, Olga Nowakowa gave me a name. She said the family'd been helping with resistance. I don't know where she got the information. Maybe Beilschmidt's right about everything. I don't know. Grolski. That was their name. Olga was right, of course. She always is. There—there were four of them. Two sons. The youngest must have been about your age."

Hanna's hands were shaking; she knew where this was going.

"I let him live. The youngest son. I don't know where he'll go, I just…left him there. In the street. Maybe I should have killed him." She could barely hear him by now; there was a slight tremble in his voice as he continued, "Maybe that would have been kinder than leaving him alone. I don't know. I don't know. Bin verloren. I don't know."

Hanna could only stand there in silence until he murmured that she ought to go to bed.

Feliks had grown used to the taste of cold coffee by then, grown used to late nights spent staring at nothing and thinking about everything.

The envelope sat before him on the table. His name was the only thing written on it; he hadn't recognized the handwriting when he'd first found it in the hall—it must have been slid under his front door—but then he'd opened it, and known.

He hadn't felt so hollow in weeks.

Inside had been a list of names. Names of people fighting for him. One had been crossed out. Grolski. He knew what it meant, of course. The Grolskis had been some of his oldest friends in the city, some of the first to agree to work with the resistance.

Now, their name was crossed out.

But the list had not been the most damning thing in the envelope, oh, no.

Her handwriting, perfect, like everything else about her, was at the bottom of the list, laughing at him, as she must have been when she wrote it.

"I know the truth about Toris Laurinaitis."

_**Moscow**_

Ivan was kissing Toris's neck in _just _the right spot; he tangled his fingers in Ivan's hair as his breathing sped up. Ivan chuckled breathlessly. "Oh, I've missed _this_," he said, gently pushing Toris onto his back and straddling his waist. Toris smiled up at him.

"Me, too," he admitted, and then it was back to kissing. Ivan's hand slid under Toris's shirt, and he pulled the bigger man down so he could kiss his mouth; Ivan moved his hands by Toris's head so he could hold himself up.

"'M gonna fall on top of you if you keep this up," he said between kisses, clearly trying not to laugh as Toris kept trying to pull him closer. He hadn't felt this happy in a long time, and he had a feeling Ivan hadn't, either.

Ivan slowly pulled away and sat up so he could work at the buttons on Toris's shirt; Toris merely smiled at him, a little dazed from the frenzy of kisses, until he finished and brushed his fingertips down his chest. Teasingly, Ivan traced Toris's hip and ran his fingers along the top of his pants before leaning over him and kissing his mouth again. His hand slid to Toris's thigh where he started to trace imaginary circles.

Ivan moved to kissing the hollow at the base of his neck. Toris felt his face grow hot, and he tried to pull Ivan close again, but he sat up at the edge of the mattress, breathing heavily, violet eyes laughing.

"I missed you, too," he said; Toris scowled at him and sat up as well.

"You're not acting like it," he said teasingly.

Ivan laughed aloud at that. "Oh, I know what you're trying to do, and it's not going to—"

Toris kissed him, effectively shutting him up. He adjusted himself so he was sitting on Ivan's lap—Ivan was forced to hold him, or risk him falling off the bed. Taking advantage of his position, Toris started unbuttoning Ivan's shirt.

"Always so eager to help," Ivan murmured between kisses when Toris was half-done, "but I liked it better when I was on top."

"Did you?" Toris replied quietly, wrapping his arms around Ivan's neck.

"Mm…." Suddenly, Ivan flipped Toris onto his back and pinned his hands above his head. "I really did."

"Cheater," Toris muttered; Ivan laughed again.

"Look who's talking!" he exclaimed. "Although," he added, smirking, "now that I've got you here…."

"About time."

Ivan scoffed. "I'm offended! Have you got something else on your schedule that I'm keeping you from?"

"I didn't mean it like that!"

"I know you didn't," Ivan said kindly. "Though I am a _bit _offended you can't pick up on my sarcasm by now."

Toris blushed but didn't respond; Ivan kissed his cheek.

"I didn't mean that, either, love."

"Hm."

Ivan kissed him then, slowly, and Toris let himself be absorbed in that until he pulled away. "Holding your hands like this is a bit annoying," he said playfully. "I don't suppose you'd mind if I tied them behind your back instead?"

Toris shook his head and Ivan smiled.

"Don't go anywhere," he said before standing.

Toris sat up and watched as he finished unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his old scars and new bruises; he tossed it carelessly on the floor and glanced back at Toris, giving him a half-smile. He pulled a piece of fabric from the drawer and returned to the bed. He gently pinned Toris's wrists behind his back and tied them together, tight enough he couldn't quite free himself but loose enough it didn't hurt. "I promise I'll take care of you," he whispered playfully, brushing Toris's hair behind his ears.

Then he was kissing Toris's neck again, with renewed passion; as always, he was teasing about it, one moment kissing him and biting him just shy of too roughly, the next, so lightly Toris could barely feel him. He started running his fingers up and down Toris's stomach.

He found himself struggling against his restraints because he wanted to pull Ivan _closer_, dammit, wanted to tangle his fingers in his hair and explore _his _body.

_The bastard wants me to _tell _him I want more. _

Toris wasn't going to give in that easily, though. Ivan pulled him back into his lap, this time staying safely in the middle of the bed, and Toris let him without any protest. He was able to control himself until Ivan's hand started making its way up and down his back, getting a bit lower every time, and he couldn't help but squirm a bit.

"Is something wrong?" Ivan asked softly, moving from his neck to his ear.

"No."

"Hm…." Toris could feel his smirk. He laughed softly before resting his hand on Toris's thigh. "I don't believe you," he whispered, tracing circles on his inner thigh. "Why don't we try again?" he said slowly, moving the circles up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Toris said.

This time, Ivan took Toris's face in his hands and forced him to look up at him. "You're lying."

Toris scowled at him. "I am _not_."

"What if I blindfolded you?"

Suddenly, Toris didn't feel quite so in the mood. It wasn't because of Ivan's suggestion—it certainly wasn't anything they hadn't done before—but he was starting to feel like sleep was more appealing than sex.

"What's wrong?" Ivan asked once more.

"I told you, nothing."

Ivan sighed, but Toris didn't sense any real irritation. "I think," he said, leaning back, "that I _am _going to blindfold you."

Toris frowned, not especially enthused by the idea but not entirely opposed, either.

"Unless you don't want me to," Ivan said, suddenly serious. "Are you sure you're alright, Toris?"

"I'm _fine_."

"You don't _look_ fine," he said, brushing the back of his hand across Toris's cheek. "If you're uncomfortable, we can stop—"

"It's not that," he muttered. "I'm just…I'm just _tired_ all of a sudden." He sighed and leaned into Ivan's chest, closing his eyes when he wrapped his arms around him and kissed the top of his head. "I'm just so _worried _about everything—and I know I worry too much, you don't need to—"

"No, Litva, you're right to worry. I'm worried, too." Ivan shifted and untied Toris's hands, all playfulness gone. "And tired. Always tired, it feels like. Do you know where Natalya's headed? I meant to ask her earlier and forgot."

Toris shook his head and curled up into Ivan, listening to his heartbeat. He felt secure in his arms, though it occurred to him that he shouldn't. He was more or less the enemy after all, wasn't he? Toris grimaced to himself. He was _not _in the mood to sort out those emotions. Not that he ever was.

"Hm. Hopefully Fatima will keep her out of trouble."

"Don't count on it," Toris muttered. Just another headache.

Ivan sighed. "So pessimistic." He sounded amused, and he had started playing with Toris's hair. "They'll be fine, Litva, they can take care of themselves."

"That's what I'm afraid of, to be completely honest." _And why does he have to call me that? _Toris had never cared for being called Litva, and Ivan knew, but…he'd grown used to it, at some point.

"Duchovny will leave us alone, Litva, I promise. It would take something very drastic on Natasha's part to make him do anything now."

_At least Feliks had the decency to use the Lithuanian word. _Actually, that reminded him….

"Have you heard any news about Poland?" Toris asked after a moment.

Ivan tensed. "No. He's under house arrest, it's not like he's _doing_ much."

"I know him better than that."

"Olga Nowakowa is keeping a close eye on him, and she says he's not up to anything other than talking to Prussia, and you and I both know how _those _conversations must go. She doesn't have any reason to lie to us."

_She doesn't have any reason to lie to Duchovny, you mean_. Toris had met her, once, and disliked her instantly.

"He's safe enough, if that's what you're worried about," Ivan said dryly after several moments of silence.

"Hm." _I certainly hope so, if he's only under house arrest. _

Ivan sighed. "Even if he _weren't_, what could you possibly do about it? Stop worrying about _him_, Litva, he's not your concern anymore."

Toris didn't have an answer to that, other than a mumbled suggestion that they go to bed.


	14. Absolution

_**Next week is finals week, so I can't promise that I'll be able to update; if I can't, I'll try to update twice the week after.**_

"_**Do not fear, for I have redeemed you…When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior…Do not be afraid, for I am with you." Isaiah 43:1-5**_

_**Warsaw**_

_**March 1942**_

Hanna's room was almost pitch black when she returned to it, exhausted but grateful that General Wagner was spending the night with Olga Nowakowa. She sat cross-legged on the bed, leaning back against the cold concrete wall and closing her eyes.

She hadn't seen much of Irena since she'd told Gil about the papers, but she also hadn't worked up the courage to ask him what he'd done about it. He had continued giving her fake lessons—by now they were purely conversational, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, he was nice to her, but on the other….

She sighed and shook her head. None of it was worth her energy, she had precious little of that as it was. One day at a time, that was the key. She'd gotten through today, all she had to do was get through tomorrow. The day after that she'd deal with when it arrived.

There was a quiet knock at the door; she frowned before forcing herself to get up and answer it.

Irena was on the other side. Hanna could only stare in shock, taking in the sight of her. She was pale, her face drawn and her hair a frizzy mess. She had deep purple circles under her eyes and was wringing her hands.

"Hi," she said, trying to smile; Hanna didn't respond but stepped aside to let her in. "I—I'm sorry if I'm, uh, disturbing you or something…."

"No, no, it's fine," Hanna said reflexively. "Are you feeling alright?" She forced a polite smile.

"Not really," Irena responded, glancing sideways. "But—but I will be. I think."

"I'd ask you to sit down, but I don't really—"

Irena shook her head. "No, that's alright. I won't be here long. I just…." The faintest bit of color graced her hollow cheeks. "Look, I've been thinking. I haven't been very nice to you, and I'm sorry. You haven't deserved it all, I was just…I was just so _frustrated_, I—I took that out on you. I'm truly sorry for that. We—I shouldn't have tried fighting you, I should've—we should've been looking out for each other from the start, it's not like anyone else is going to."

"_Herr _Beilschmidt—"

Irena made a face. "No, he's not. Maybe he'd like to think he is for…for some reason. I honestly can't think what that might be, but it's beside the point.

"I'm not saying we—we have to be friends or anything. I understand if you don't—I just….Let's start over?" She looked up at Hanna, waiting for an answer, leaning forward slightly.

Hanna, again, could only stare at first, but then she sighed softly. "Irena Kowalczykówna, I don't…." She glanced down. She wasn't sure how she felt about Irena, truthfully, but she knew how she felt about being lonely. She took a deep breath. "Sure. We can…we can start over."

It was like she had lifted the world off of Irena's shoulders; the brunette grinned with genuine happiness for the first time since Hanna had met her. "Thank you," she said, "truly, thank you—"

"It's nothing," Hanna muttered, blushing, wondering if she'd come to regret it and desperately hoping she wouldn't.

Rain was pelting the windows when Zimmer entered Gil's office uninvited. The nation frowned up at him, and Zimmer smiled.

"I am sorry to disturb you, _Herr _Beilschmidt," he said. "But I've been busy lately, and I wanted to talk to you about Irena."

Gil silently motioned for him to sit down, and he did.

"I know that last time you sent her to work for me, I told you that she was incredibly helpful and that I wanted her to keep working for me and so on. Well, I'd like to request that again. She's proved _incredibly_ useful, far more useful than I'd ever imagined, even after having used her before."

Gil steepled his hands as his frown deepened. There was a long list of questions he wanted to ask the doctor, most of them concerning Irena's health and all of them sounding suspicious. "I shouldn't have made her work for you so long," he said at last. "You've grown attached to her."

"I was already attached to her," Zimmer said smoothly.

"That's a shame." Gil's voice was colder than he'd really meant it to be, but he didn't care. "I want her back. Today." If it had been any other situation, he wouldn't have cared if he never saw her again.

"Today?" Zimmer's pale eyes widened ever so slightly. "That's…."

"Yes, _Herr Doktor _Zimmer, today. And sooner rather than later."

"Of course, _Herr _Beilschmidt," he said dejectedly. "I'll send her up right away."

Irena's deathly-pale pallor was not aided by the dark shadows under her eyes. She was hovering some distance from Gil, wary, hugging herself and following his every movement as he paced behind his desk.

"I'm still not happy with you, you know," he said at last, forcing himself to stand still. "I haven't forgotten what you did."

"Then why?" she asked hoarsely.

_Because I don't trust Zimmer. Because Łukasiewicz would kill me if he found out something happened to you. Because I talked with your mother and she's worried about you. _"Because I missed having someone to work for me."

Irena glanced down, scowling, and didn't say anything.

"You've no right to be mad at _me_," Gil snapped. "I've done nothing wrong."

"Oh, no, you'd have to actually _do_ something in order to do something wrong," she muttered. "As far as I can tell, the only thing you've ever _done_ is convince Hanna that you actually care about her, for some reason."

"Don't test my patience again, Irena Kowalczykówna, or you'll be staying with Zimmer permanently."

Her lips thinned, but she refrained from talking back.

"By the way," Gil said as he sat down. "I spoke with your mother the other day."

He had never seen her face so white; she stared at him, clearly trying to think of a response and not coming up with anything.

"I had to double check, you know. For some reason, I have a hard time trusting you."

"I told you to leave her out of this," Irena said quietly. "She's got nothing to do with anything, you leave her be—"

"Or what?" Gil asked, eyebrows raised. "Have you suddenly got leverage I don't know about? Don't worry, I didn't tell her anything. And I don't plan on hurting her. Like I said, I needed to double check."

_That_ had been a fun conversation—though he had learned quite a bit about Irena, so it certainly hadn't been for nothing. Sara Kowalczykowa may have given Irena her looks, but she had not given her her tenacity.

Gil could see her recompose herself from across the room. "Well, I'd say that I know things, but you'd have to care first," she said.

_"Please," Sara Kowalczykowa had said after an eternity of Gil getting her comfortable enough to talk, "I know Irka can be—I know she's stubborn and—and headstrong, but she's—well, she's very hardworking, and—and anything you need her to do—anything at all—I'm sure she's more than capable."_

_ "Oh, she's been wonderful, actually," Gil had lied, seeing how desperate she was and taking pity on her. "You're absolutely right, she is hardworking, and good at everything she does besides." _

_ The look of relief on her face had made Gil feel a bit nauseous. _

"Oh, no, I'm interested in _information_," he said to Irena.

_"I'm—I'm glad to hear it," she continued. "Truly, I—well," she said glancing down and smiling nervously. "I suppose it's natural for a mother to be worried for her daughter, isn't it?"_

_ "Of course." Gil couldn't help but notice how gaunt she was; he suspected that, like Irena, she would always have been thin, but she was half a skeleton._

_ "It's just…it's just that she hasn't been to see me in a while, and I—nothing's happened to her, has it?"_

_ "She's just had a little cold, but she's fine now."_

"Are you?" Irena asked. "It doesn't seem like it. You seem to not be able to see under your own nose."

_"She's—she's safe with you, though," Sara Kowalczykowa said, looking up at him, brown eyes wide. "Right?"_

_ Gil had only been able to stare at her at first, realizing suddenly that she and Hanna couldn't be the only people afraid of him—realizing, suddenly, why Irena felt the need to be so confrontational._

His eyes narrowed. "What's Zimmer up to?"

"Oh, it's not just Zimmer."

_"Of course she's safe with me." _

"Wagner isn't working with him. Not without my knowing about it."

"You don't know the half of it," she said, a bit too zealously for Gil's liking, but he couldn't pretend that he was surprised. She did seem like the type to gossip frequently.

_It must have been difficult to see her own mother so desperate, so afraid…._

"Go on."

"Promise me. Promise you'll leave my mother alone."

_…and to be in a position of relative luxury, knowing so many were starving and left in the cold._

"I promise."

_"I promise, I'll keep an eye on her," Gil said. "I rather enjoy her company truthfully—not like that! Never like that."_

Irena crossed the room, sat down across from Gil, and leaned forward. She whispered, "You didn't hear any of this from me, though, alright? I'm not supposed to tell you any of this."

"Of course not. Forget Zimmer, what's _Wagner _up to?"

She grinned, and Gil couldn't quite ignore the malice in her eyes. It occurred to him that she wanted to spread discord between him and Wagner, and yet….

_Sara Kowalczykowa was blushing. "Of course—I'd never accuse—"_

_ "No, it's a normal thing to worry about, though it shouldn't be." All he could think of was Wagner and Hanna, and the look on Irena's face that night when she'd finally lost her temper._

"A few days ago, General Wagner brought in some guy, right? And, at first, I didn't realize—he looked beat up, like he'd been in a fight, I thought it was natural to take him to Doctor Zimmer, right?"

"But?"

"General Wagner didn't bring him in for _healing_."

_"No, I mean—Irka's talked about you."_

_ "What's she have to say?" He paused. "You can be honest, you know. I won't hurt you."_

Gil frowned. "Then why on earth—"

"Well, Doctor Zimmer knows how to help someone, doesn't he?"

"Yes, of course, he's a doctor."

Her smile was gone, and she suddenly seemed tired. "So, if he knows all the ways to help someone…."

_"She says you try your best to look out for her and Hanna Ratajczakówna, though—though she questions your motives." Barely audible, she added, "Or you effectiveness."_

"…doesn't it make sense that he knows all the ways to hurt someone, as well?"

Gil leaned back in his chair, not sure what to make of that. "But why wouldn't they tell me?"

_"Yeah, I….I've talked to her about that. Truthfully, it's hard when I don't spend much time with Hanna."_

_ "No, that's—that's understandable. Ira doesn't trust easily. Especially men."_

_ "I'd noticed."_

"I don't know. It's not like they told _me_ anything." She hesitated. "Only…."

_"Her father—well, I don't like to speak—to speak ill of the dead. Or—or of my husband. But…."_

_ "Her father was not a nice man."_

_ "No," she admitted. "He wasn't. He…." She sighed. "He wasn't happy that I taught her how to read. Ever since she realized that, she's been…well, she can—she can be difficult to reach, if—if that makes sense."_

_ "I understand. There was one night…I was drunk—it'd been a long week, but I wasn't _that _drunk." He was the one blushing now. "Anyway, she seemed…off. And so I wondered…."_

"Only what?"

Irena fidgeted. "Doctor Zimmer wanted me to help him," she admitted in a whisper. "He—not to—to actually—only to…to make sure he didn't die, I guess. I wasn't allowed in the room when he was—"

_"But I'm glad to know that someone's looking after her. I'm glad she's safe. I—truthfully, if—if it comes to it, I'd give my own life for her to—to make it out of this alive."_

_ "It won't come to that."_

_ She looked skeptical. "Maybe. Maybe I'll still—well, regardless. She's young, she has so much life left to live. I'm…well, I'm not exactly saying I _want _to—"_

_ "Of course not."_

"No, of course not," Gil muttered. "D'you know where they're keeping this guy?"

"One of the rooms in the basement. Near Doctor Zimmer's office."

_"She wants to be a chemist, you know. Like—like Maria Skłodowska, she says."_

_ Gil frowned. "Maria Skł—oh, you mean Marie Curie. Yeah, I've heard of her."_

He hesitated. "Hey, I promise I won't make you work for him again if you're right about all this."

Irena nodded. "I—thank you." A moment's pause. "I'm sorry for burning your papers. It was stupid of me."

_Sara Kowalczykowa smiled at that. "I—I believe she's smart enough to do it, she only has to be given the chance…."_

_ "I agree with you."_

"It was." He sighed. "But you're not going to do anything stupid again, right?" he asked, half-teasing.

The ghost of a smile graced her face. "No, sir, I won't. That's a promise."


	15. Mercy

**_"_****how is it so easy for you**

**to be kind to people ****_he asked_**

**_milk and honey dripped _**

**_from my lips as i answered_**

**cause people have not **

**been kind to me****_"_**

**_-Rupi Kaur _**

**_Warsaw_**

**_March 1942_**

Gil had no doubt that he and Irena had only barely brought Antonin Czerwinski back from the brink of death; certainly, the captured resistance fighter looked the part, covered in bandages and stitches. What skin was revealed was varying shades of purple and yellow and his light brown hair was still matted with dried brown blood. He was sleeping when Gil entered his new room, which was small and windowless; really, the only upgrade was that it was not in the basement. Irena was sitting next to him, illuminated by a single candle and the dim yellow light from the hall.

"You didn't give him too much morphine, did you?" she asked without looking up. "He's been sleeping all day."

"No, he's just exhausted." In truth, Gil had been worried about overdosing him and had probably given him too little. "Unless he's having a hard time breathing or his pulse is—"

"No, he's just been sleeping. D'you think the burns'll poison him or something?"

Gil sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "Zimmer still hasn't told me what kind of acid it was."

The doctor had _not _been happy when Gil had declared that all prisoners were to go through him before anyone else, and had tried very hard to keep Gil from taking Czerwinski away from him. Wagner had remained neutral; Gil suspected he hadn't known exactly what Zimmer was doing and, having discovered it, didn't approve but also didn't want to make the doctor an enemy.

"Has he told Wagner?"

"Probably not. I've not been in the mood to talk to him lately."

Irena frowned. "Neither of them know that I told you, right?" she asked softly.

"If they suspect you, they've not said anything about it." He paused. "In any case," he said, "I'll protect you."

"Hm." The candlelight was caught in her curls, lending her an eerie, flickering glow and the circles that were always under her eyes now only made her appear more skeletal than Gil was entirely comfortable with.

"It's…difficult with Hanna…."

"You could still talk to Wagner—"

"I'm afraid of making things worse."

She apparently didn't have a response to that. Gil sighed again, unable to bring himself to tell her the truth: that they had wasted their time in trying to save him. Wagner hadn't said as much yet, but Gil knew that Czerwinski wouldn't be leaving alive.

"Have you talked with your mother recently?" he asked.

Irena visibly tensed. "No," she said stiffly. "Why?"

Gil hesitated. "Just curious. You should eat, you know."

"Hm."

"It's late."

She stood. "If you'd wanted me to leave, you should've just said so," she muttered as she walked past him into the hall.

Gil watched to make sure she was gone before crossing the room to Czerwinski, pressing two fingers on his neck to take his pulse. It was slower and his skin was colder than it should have been, but—well, he'd been given morphine and was badly hurt, probably sick. Gil blew the candle out and turned to leave, freezing when he heard Czerwinski groan. He turned back; Czerwinski groaned again and Gil returned to his side in time to see him open his eyes.

His eyes were slightly out of focus; he didn't seem to quite register that Gil was there until he spoke.

"Your name's Antonin Czerwinski, right? That's what Zimmer told me but he doesn't speak Polish so I can only trust him so much as far as that's concerned." _As far as anything's concerned, really._

Czerwinski frowned at him and didn't answer.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, I'm not interested in that. I mean, I'll gladly take any information you have to give—"

He shook his head and went back to staring at the ceiling, though it was obscured by darkness.

"Well, in that case, did Zimmer ever tell you what kinda acid he used, any sort of longwinded monologue about—"

"No," Czerwinski said, his voice rough and barely audible.

"Ah, that's unfortunate. Not that I probably have what I'd need to treat your burns more than I already have….Well, if it makes you feel any better, you probably won't die because of the burns."

Czerwinski only stared blankly up.

"You're still almost certainly going to die, of course. I mean, you will _eventually_, regardless, but...You could always put it off, you know."

He made a raspy sound that might have been a laugh. "No, I can't. All the information in the world wouldn't change your mind."

"It's not my mind you need to change," Gil muttered, but Czerwinski was already drifting off again.

The city was bathed in oversaturated gold as the sun sank below the horizon; the world seemed to stand still, but for the scratching of pen on paper behind Hanna. She turned, leaning against the window, and watched Irena work in silence. Her dark hair had shades of red in it in the right light, Hanna noted.

The silence between them was comfortable now. It seemed that when Irena wanted to try to be a friend, she really went out of her way to do so; Hanna was already glad she'd given her a second chance. Hanna would never have guessed it before, but she was capable of incredible kindness—when she wanted to be. Sometimes, she was still harsh, and there was always something about her that eluded Hanna. That was fine. Hanna was patient, and she knew that, eventually, even the mountains would crumble to dust. For the time being, she was simply grateful to have a companion.

"When d'you think he'll be back?" Hanna asked.

Irena shrugged. "It's different every day."

"I was just thinking," Hanna murmured, glancing back at the sunset, "that it'd be about time for Passover."

Irena's writing paused. "I guess it would," she replied, bemused. "I'd have to look at a lunar calendar to be sure, though. Or maybe my mother knows."

"The Christians have it easy, don't they?" she said, hugging herself. "Their holidays being on the same day every year and all."

Irena chuckled, and froze. "I think Easter may not be, though."

"Oh? Truthfully, I don't know much about Christianity."

"Nor do I. Truthfully, I don't care."

"You can be very cynical, did you know that?"

"Yes," was the reply, but she turned back to Hanna and graced her with one of her rare smiles.

Hanna sighed and moved to sit on the floor to the right of Irena's chair, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her head on her arms.

Irena frowned down at her. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing in particular, I'm just tired." She closed her eyes, but started when she felt Irena's hand on hers; she stared up at her, and Irena's expression softened. Smiling lazily, Hanna adjusted her arms so that she could actually hold Irena's hand.

"You're always tired," Irena teased gently. "Wagner's gone tonight, then?"

"Thankfully," Hanna muttered, and they lapsed back into silence. The sky turned a deep blue as the edges of the objects in Beilschmidt's office began to lose their colors. Irena rubbed circles on the back of Hanna's hand with her thumb, and Hanna could hear her start to write again. She closed her eyes, deciding to let herself relax for once. She was safe here, she told herself, as safe as it was possible to be.

Beilschmidt, still wearing his coat, found them both half asleep some time later, too fatigued to stand at his entrance as they—as Hanna, at least—normally would have. His eyebrows were raised, but he made no comment as he busied himself about the office. She couldn't see what he was doing, but she could hear him moving around. She sat up straight and let go of Irena's hand when the electric light flickered on with a low hum.

"It's late," Beilschmidt said at last, still moving around. Hanna was drowsy enough to close her eyes once more, but Irena replied.

"You're back late."

"Mm. I was busy." He walked over to the side of the desk nearest to Hanna and paused. "I'm glad to see the two of you getting along."

Hanna felt Irena tense; she glanced up at Beilschmidt, but he was already turning away. Irena relaxed.

"You two should go to bed," he said, walking away.

Hanna's legs were cramping, but she forced herself to stand, frowning at Irena when she realized she wasn't moving. The brunette shook her head slightly, and Hanna gave her a look that she hoped said _be careful_. Out loud, she said, "Good night, then," and left, glancing back one more time at Irena, who still had not moved.

Gil turned back enough to frown at Irena. "I did mean both of you, you know."

She frowned up at him. "What's going to happen to _Pan_ Czerwinski?"

He ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh before answering, "I convinced Wagner to let him live, that's all you need to know." Czerwinski would live as an _example_ to the resistance; it had actually been Wagner's idea, to Gil's chagrin.

_"__They'll think twice after seeing what Zimmer's capable of," _he'd said, grimacing.

_Yeah, and if Łukasiewicz hears of it somehow, even years from now, he'll never consider cooperating at all_. Gil had not forgotten the general's offer to Łukasiewicz, limited freedom in return for greater cooperation, but he hadn't mentioned it to anyone since the first conversation with Wagner about it.

"Is that where you were?" Irena asked, busying herself with organizing the papers on the desk.

"That's not your business. Go to bed." He turned away again, pressing his hand to his stomach and wincing as pain shot through his torso; climbing up the stairs must have reopened the wound. He just needed to sit down for a bit, but she couldn't be allowed to see.

"It's not like you to be gone for so long."

Sweat dripped down his face; he willed Irena to go away so he could take his damn coat off. It felt as though it were made of lead. "I told you, it's not your business."

"Bit warm today for a coat, isn't it?"

"Go. _Now_." _I don't have anything to threaten her with anymore, dammit. _All he wanted was to go to bed.

She sighed, and her chair scraped across the floor. The floorboards creaked as she walked toward the door, then stopped. "Are—are you alright?" she asked.

"Course, why?" he snapped.

"Oh, no reason, you're just covered in blood and look like you're about to pass out."

Glancing down, Gil saw the dark stain in his coat and the brighter red on the palm of his hand. "I'm fine. You need to leave." A moment passed; she stayed where she was. Gil rolled his eyes and spun to face her—too fast. The room whirled around him, making him dizzy; he didn't even register that he'd fallen until he felt Irena pulling on his arm.

"_Herr _Beilschmidt, _Herr_ Beilschmidt," she was saying, her voice shaking in panic.

"_Geht's gut, geht's gut_," he muttered, weakly waving his hand, trying to dismiss her fear.

"_Wirklich_?" Even when she was alarmed, it seemed she was able to be fed up with him.

"_Ja, ja, natürlich_. Here, help me up," he said, switching back to Polish, grimacing as she pulled him up enough to stand; he ended up leaning on her shoulder and she helped him stagger over to the nearest chair, where he collapsed.

Irena tore his coat off and was working at his shirt more frantically than necessary, even if he had been mortal. The room had stopped spinning quite as much, but he still felt lightheaded and his stomach hurt in every way it was possible for it to hurt. He grabbed Irena's wrists before she saw anything that might clue her in.

"I'm _fine_," he said with far more conviction than he felt. Of course he wasn't fine, but he wasn't going to die and that was all that mattered.

"You're _fine_?" Her voice was higher than usual. "D'you have any idea how much blood you've lost?" Her dress was covered with some of that blood on the side he'd leaned on, he noticed.

"Course I do, I'm the one who's lost it, aren't I?" She tried to yank free, but he tightened his grip. "Irena, I'm telling you, stop. Now. That's an order—"

She stumbled back, nearly falling, as she managed to free herself. "If I stop, you'll die," she whispered, her voice and hands shaking. "You'll die and then—and then what?" Gil had never seen her look so pale; suddenly, he understood.

"I'm not going to die," he said gently. "It—it looks much worse than it is. I'm just—I'm just very tired, that's why I fell earlier. And—and not all of this blood is mine, you know!" The last part was technically true, but she clearly didn't believe him. "Besides, I've—I've had worse—I'll know when I'm in real danger!" That was also true. Gil sometimes missed fighting with swords, but he certainly never missed being hit with them.

She shook her head and stepped toward him. "Even—even if that _is_ true, you should still—you should still get help."

"Maybe, but—but not from you."

"You trusted me last time!" She froze. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"No, it's—you're right," he said, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I did—I did trust you last time. But this—this is different, alright? I'm not going to die and—and neither are you. I _promise_."

She stared down at the floor, wringing her hands, but didn't back away. "I just—I'd feel better if—"

"I know. But I have a friend I'll see tomorrow, he'll help me."

Biting her lip, Irena glanced up at him, dark eyes wide. "I'm worried, still. It's a _lot _of blood."

"Yeah, I—sorry 'bout your dress, by the way."

She frowned at him. "My dre—?" A quiet gasp escaped her lips when she saw. "Truly, I—I think you—you should at least let me bandage—"

"No," he replied hotly.

"Why not?" Irena retorted, her hands now forming fists. "What are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding anything from you!"

"What am I going to do, anyway? Tell Wagner?"

"Irena. I won't tell you to leave again." Gil stood, wavered, and fell back into the chair.

"You need _help_," she said, voice shaking slightly.

He glared at her. "I do _not_. You were doing so well with cooperating, honestly, but now you've gone back to being so _frustrating_—"

"I hardly think one argument about your wellbeing is—"

"Oh, don't pretend this is out of the goodness of your heart," Gil snapped. "You and I both know you're too selfish for that."

"Well, forgive me for recognizing that you're the only chance I've got at getting out of this alive—"

"If you're smart enough to realize that, then why don't you do as you're told?"

"Because you're being an idiot!" Her face was red and she was breathing heavily; Gil realized she wouldn't back down.

"Fine," he hissed, his own face hot. "Fine. You want to see proof that I'm right? You want to know why I know I won't die?" He was unbuttoning his shirt with trembling, fumbling fingers, but he was too angry to care if it made him look ridiculous. At last, he threw it to the ground and glared up at Irena. Both of her hands were clasped to her mouth, her deep brown eyes wide in what might have been either shock or horror as she took in the scars on his chest and arms and the monstrous gash across his stomach. It was the first time he'd taken in the full extent of the damage; he honestly hadn't thought it was _that _bad, but he could see that, if he'd been human, he'd have died almost instantly the cut was so large and so deep. "See?" he said quietly, trying not to act surprised or discomforted by the oozing half-dry pools of blood. "If it were going to kill me, I'd be dead already. I'd be dead more than a thousand times over."

Irena's eyes met his, and he sighed; he was too tired to be properly angry with anyone but himself.

"Look, you're not supposed to know about—about, well, this," he said softly, gesturing to the wound in his stomach.

She moved her hands away from her mouth in order to whisper, "Wagner—_General_ Wagner—knows?"

Nodding, Gil said, "Yeah, him and Zimmer and…and a few others. People you wouldn't know. But if _anyone_ found out you knew, they'd kill you, alright? They'd kill you without a second thought. I could maybe protect you if someone found out about the papers you burned, but this—this is…you can't tell _anyone_, alright? Not Hanna, not your mother, not _anyone_. Got it?"

She nodded in terrified awe.

"This is so important that if, somehow, the Russians win, they'd kill you, too, just for knowing me." He snorted. "Honestly, they probably wouldn't care if you knew about this or not, but that's not important. I'm—I'm important enough that they'd go looking for anyone who'd ever had anything to do with me," he said, "and I'm not saying this jokingly. I'm being completely serious when I say that yes, I am _that _important."

"I believe you," Irena whispered.

"I can't tell you who I am," he went on. "Frankly, I'm not sure I want to, you'd only hate me more than you already do, but that's beside the point."

Irena blushed. "I—do you want help with—?"

"No," he said. "No, I—you should go to bed."

She bowed her head. "If—if you're sure."

"I am."

She nodded once and left, her hands trembling. Gil sighed and leaned back in his chair. _That could have gone better_, he thought.

**_Translations_**

_Geht's gut _— The "full phrase" is _mir geht es gut_, lit. "it's going well [with] me;" I'm fine, I'm alright.

_Wirklich?_ — Really?

_Ja, ja, natürlich_ — Yes, yes, of course.


	16. Others

_**Hello! It's been a REALLY long time since I updated last, oops lmao. Because of this and some other reasons, I'll probably be posting as I write (rather than on a schedule) for a while.**_

_**Thank you to everyone who's read this far (I realize it's quite the investment lol), and to everyone who's favorited/left kudos/bookmarked/etc, it means a lot! And an extra special thank you to everyone who's commented/reviewed! It truly means the world to me, it's often my main source of motivation and it seriously makes my day when I see I have a new comment!**_

"_**Just because somebody doesn't have a body, doesn't mean they know more than you. Why do you have such blind trust in these spirits?" –One of my Religion professor's Indian friends on the idea of séances and the like**_

_**Byelorussian Soviet Socialist Republic**_

_**April 1942**_

Vladislav Maksimovich frowned up at the green canopy, watching the new leaves tremble as they blissfully prevented any raindrops from falling on him. Early April was still chilly, and they were struggling to get a fire going—Natalya Arlovskaya had scoffed initially, saying the wood was too wet, too green, the smoke was likely to give them away—but then Fatima Kovalevskaya had intervened. Arlovskaya, he'd noticed, seemed largely indifferent to the elements. She was sitting on the ground, cross-legged, blankly staring at the pile of wood Yuri Erikovitch was trying to ignite; Zaslavsky suspected she wasn't actually watching. Her deep blue eyes were elsewhere and everyone had learned by now to leave her alone.

That suited Zaslavsky just fine. He liked the challenge of figuring other people out. It had started as a necessity, of course; he'd spent the better part of two decades learning and then mastering how to work the prison system to his favor—learning whose ass to kiss and when, and who not to bother trying to win over at all. The first few lessons had been harsh but effective; he'd never been known to make the same mistake twice.

So he sat and watched the two women and fourteen men around him in silence, working out their thoughts as he leaned back against a tree, one leg outstretched and a marred hand resting on the other knee. He knew all the men, of course, and their thoughts were easy. None of the men had any motive other than to get out of this alive, an idea Zaslavsky found laughable. Even if they survived the war, what then? Convicts were hardly likely to become recognized war heroes.

It was the women he couldn't figure out. Truthfully, he'd never met a woman who wasn't an enigma in some way, but these two were…_different_. They both stood out painfully: Kovalevskaya the Uzbek woman who never took her headscarf off; who was openly religious and didn't seem to have gotten in trouble for it somehow; tall, thin, athletic, with deep brown almond shaped eyes that seemed to see Zaslavsky's very _thoughts_; and Arlovskaya, who claimed to be Byelorussian though her brother was a native of Moscow, who wouldn't explain why her last name was different from her siblings'—Zaslavsky had never met her sister, but she looked far too much like the man she called her brother not to be related to him somehow. True, they had different body types—Braginsky was tall and muscular, Arlovskaya short and lithe—but they had the same silvery blonde hair, the same way of carrying themselves as though they expected the world to bow before them and kiss their feet. And none of that was even _touching _the other members of their household he'd encountered.

Normally, he wouldn't have been too concerned about it, but he was risking his life under their command and he couldn't figure them out—that bothered him.

Overhead, the rain fell harder, more drops reaching the forest floor. They had tents, of course, but Zaslavsky didn't want to spend the day cramped in them if he didn't have to. Kovalevskaya frowned anxiously at the heavens, but Arlovskaya didn't move. Yuri Erikovitch managed to coax a few sparks to take to the wood, and, moments later, yellow flames burst into vibrant life even as the rain cascaded from the charcoal clouds above. There was a flash of brilliant light just before a clap of thunder erupted, causing the ground to shake in its intensity; Zaslavsky could feel raindrops on his head, but the fire only seemed to grow bigger.

The unease was palpable, or maybe it was only paranoia that made everyone shrink away from Arlovskaya, except Kovalevskaya, who was scowling at her. She didn't notice, though; her fixation on the flames was trance-like—until she suddenly looked up and met Zaslavsky's eyes, the smallest of smiles on her face.

He shuddered and looked away. There were demons dancing in the flames, and they were reflected in her eyes.

It had been raining constantly for a week. Everything was wet; Zaslavsky couldn't help but wonder if what was left of his fingers and toes would be permanently wrinkled. Making matters worse, they had left the shelter of the forest four days ago, and were now trudging through never-ending marshland.

_This is a worse punishment than any gulag._

No one spoke. There was nothing to say. They were surrounded by grays and sickly greens and drab browns; it was as though most of the color had been sucked from the world, and what remained seemed to lose a bit more of its saturation every passing hour.

The nights brought no relief. All of the supplies were soaked, and the storm only kept going. Zaslavsky might have been able to tune out the droning of the rain on the tent or the booming thunder, but every so often the wind would screech horribly and fling itself mercilessly at the tents. There was something about it that put him on edge; he could dismiss it during the day as a nuisance but at night…at night, lying, sleepless in the blackness, it sounded like the shrieking of ghosts and he couldn't quite convince himself that it _wasn't_.

Occasionally, the rain would let up enough that the squelching of their boots could be heard, or the odd splash no one dared investigate. Maybe it was just lack of sleep, but Zaslavsky felt constantly uneasy. He couldn't shake the nagging thought that he shouldn't be there; he had heard Kovalevskaya and Yuri Erikovitch and Abram Danilovich pray, each to their own God, but he could only shake his head at them. The latter two were young and naïve, so that was forgivable, but the only gods who were there, he couldn't help but think, were the old ones whose names were largely forgotten. He didn't know much about them, but he seemed to recall that they were a good deal less merciful than the Christian God. He supposed he couldn't speak for the Jewish or Muslim God, but Abram Danilovich and Kovalevskaya seemed optimistic enough.

Late that afternoon, the rain slowed to a miserable drizzle, then stopped; Zaslavsky glanced pessimistically up at the clouds that continued to loom overhead and the men kept walking without commenting on it.

At some point Zaslavsky realized they were out of the marshes; hills spread out before them, a thin mist clinging to the small valleys between them. Arlovskaya stopped suddenly, frowning toward the east.

"We should only be couple of miles from a village," she said, her brow furrowed, though how she could have known that was anybody's guess. Kovalevskaya frowned at her, then in the direction she was looking, but didn't say anything. An uneasy silence fell amongst them.

Biting her lip, Arlovskaya said: "We'll head that way together, at least for another mile or so." A pause. "You may need to fight. If we're attacked, it'll be without warning, so be prepared."

_Be paranoid, you mean_, Zaslavsky thought, but his hand moved to rest on the revolver at his hip. He'd never used a gun outside of training, and wasn't looking forward to changing that fact, but there was something about the mechanicalness of Arlovskaya's voice that made his stomach churn and his blood run cold. Something was _wrong_.

_Maybe we're lost. There's no way she could know exactly where we are_. But there was a chill to the air as they moved forward that turned his skin to gooseflesh, even as the clouds lightened slightly.

They walked nearly three more miles before twilight; a quiet wind rose from the west, stirring the hairs on the back of Zaslavsky's neck, and a dense fog sank upon them, making it so hard to see Zaslavsky actually ran into Arlovskaya when she stopped abruptly again. He apologized, but she brushed him off.

"Wait here," she ordered. "Don't light any fires, and _be quiet_." With that, she vanished into the fog and shadows like a cat slinking out of sight.

Kovalevskaya muttered something under her breath; Zaslavsky wasn't sure what language it was in, but it sounded like some kind of prayer.

He disliked that she was as uneasy as the rest of them; normally, she remained unfazed by Arlovskaya's strangeness—if anything, there was a motherly disapproving quality to her reactions—but there was something off.

"Are we lost?" Yuri Erikovitch asked.

"No," she answered. "No, I don't think so." There was a moment's hesitation before she continued. "That's not…that's not what bothers me, anyway."

"What does bother you then?"

Zaslavsky couldn't make out the expression on her face in the near-dark, but she seemed to be choosing her words carefully when she answered. "There's…_something_…out there, and I don't know what it is. I don't think _Natalya _knows what it is—that's what _really _bothers me."

"Could the fascists be watching us, d'you think?"

"No," she said decisively. "No, if there were a large enough group they'd be a danger to us, they'd have attacked by now."

_There could still be a smaller group watching us_, Zaslavsky thought, but he couldn't shake the rather unsettling feeling that she was convinced the enemy was nowhere near. _It's something else. But what?_

No one spoke after that; no one ate or moved away from the group to relieve themselves, either. Kovalevskaya was right; _something_ was out there, and, as night truly fell, he couldn't help but feel that they were being watched.

The wind died down, and thick, oppressive _silence _filled its void. Zaslavsky had no idea how much time had passed; he forced himself to ask Kovalevskaya if she was beginning to worry.

She didn't answer immediately. "Natalya Arlovskaya told us to wait here," she said hesitantly. "But...alright. Zaslavsky, three others, I don't care who, let's go see what's going on."

It took several minutes to work out who the other three would be, since no one was particularly keen on volunteering, but it was eventually sorted out.

"Everyone else," Kovalevskaya said, "_stay here_. And light a fire."

Someone tried to protest that Arlovskaya had forbidden a fire, but Kovalevskaya cut him off. "Natalya can find her way back to us in the dark, I can't. And it should keep anything from attacking you."

"What if the fascists—"

"Did I say 'any_thing_' or 'any_one_?'" she retorted, and silence returned as the five of them set off, Kovalevskaya's point made.

They walked about a quarter of a mile east; the fog did not let up, but Zaslavsky could see a pale blue glow from behind the hill directly ahead of them. Kovalevskaya froze.

"Marsh light," someone muttered.

"We're not in the marshes," Zaslavsky replied as someone else said, "No, it's too big."

Kovalevskaya was obviously uncomfortable, but she marched forward and Zaslavsky and the others followed her silently as she made her way up the hill. The fog was even _thicker _at the bottom, completely obscuring the source of the unearthly glow—they kept moving forward though all of Zaslavsky's instincts were screaming at him to leave. When they reached the bottom, the fog around them vanished without warning, and the glow became almost unbearably bright.

Around them, the village that had once been there lay in ruin. No building had more than a single wall left standing, and ash lay in heaps like snow. One of the men cried out, and Zaslavsky spun to see what had startled him—only to cry out himself, fumbling for his gun and dropping it. He'd found the source of the glow.

Arlovskaya stood before them, backlit so that her silver hair gave the illusion of a blue aura; behind her were dozens of ghosts, and they looked _angry_.


	17. Secrets

"_**Be as you wish to seem." –Socrates **_

_**Warsaw**_

_**April 1942**_

Green-gold light trickled through the thick canopy of young leaves. A light breeze stirred the hairs on the back of Grobinsky's neck, whispering incomprehensibly to itself and the forest as it rustled through the leaves; birdsong and the crunch of dead leaves underfoot added to the gentle background noise of the forest.

_Tranquil_, Grobinsky thought; the forest was tranquil.

It shouldn't have been.

Olga Nowakowa's brow was furrowed, but she was otherwise unreadable. She looked horribly out of place; she was an urban socialite, after all, hair curled, wearing a gray-blue dress, a pearl necklace, and her trademark scarlet nail polish and lipstick.

"Where are they?" she asked; Grobinsky shrugged, but then the wind shifted and he knew.

Nowakowa gagged visibly at the stench; Grobinsky's own stomach churned and threatened to empty itself, but he forced himself to walk in the direction the smell was coming from. It didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for. The Partisans' camp was utterly destroyed, and the mutilated—now rotting—bodies of twenty men lay in disarray around the clearing. _They didn't even have the decency to burn them_, he thought. Somehow, that was what disgusted him most.

Nowakowa noisily made her way to him, hand over her mouth and nose as though it would help. She gasped quietly when she saw. "_How_?" she whispered, blue eyes wide. "How—how could they be one step ahead of us? After—after everything—?"

Grobinsky wished he had an answer for her, but all he could manage was to shake his head, numb. _What will they do if they find _us _out? _

Gil frowned at the papers on his desk without seeing them. It was late, and the constant slight flicker of the electric light was giving him a headache. An April thunderstorm raged outside, brilliant flashes of light overlapping with explosions of thunder, all as the wind shrieked against the building and rain pounded the roof.

He was still sore from his run-in with the Partisans a week ago, though Łukasiewicz had done a good job stitching his wound. The Pole had been reluctant at first—_Don't you _have _a doctor?_—but then Gil had told him what happened. They'd have to be taken out soon, of course—probably tomorrow—but Gil wasn't concerned about that at the moment.

He was concerned that he hadn't seen Irena in several hours. The past week she'd been unusually quiet and jumpy around him; he knew why, and he knew better than to try and convince her that he wouldn't hurt her. If past experience weren't enough to persuade her, nothing he could say was. He sighed deeply, wincing as the action pulled at his sutures. None of that, of course, changed the fact that, whether she believed it or not, she was safest _here_, with him. It was too late, with Gil's luck, naturally, to ask Hanna if she knew where Irena might be.

_She might not even tell me, anyway_. Sure, it was nice to have them get along rather than bicker constantly, but Gil was afraid that the price of peace and quiet was a shift in Hanna's loyalty.

_She was never loyal to you, idiot. She just never had a good enough reason to lie to you_.

He lit a cigarette. _That _was a headache he'd rather not deal with. No, as he leaned back in his chair carefully, he turned to more uplifting thoughts—thoughts like that he'd been healing slower than he should have.

The nations' health was tied so intimately to their people that someone could gauge the average health of the people by the health of their nation. Oh, there were some caveats, of course—humans didn't generally get colds when the economy took a turn for the worse—but it was generally an accurate method. It was therefore very _not good_ when the nations began to heal more slowly, when their metabolisms began to slow. _Of course_, Gil reflected, _I suppose my official status is somewhat questionable_. He supposed part of it could also be related to the fact that he was currently isolated from his people.

His musings were interrupted abruptly by the electricity shutting off. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the darkness, he stood stiffly and went to look for candles—because dammit, he was going to stay up until Irena returned—only to feel a blast of cold air as the window behind him was open. A human-shaped shadow moved amongst the others, briefly obscured by the flurry of papers; Gil dropped his cigarette, stomping it out, and reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

_Shit_.

That was alright, though, because his attacker had lost the element of surprise and Gil had a thousand years of experience and training—he easily threw him into the nearest wall—

Only to have a second attacker come from behind, wrap his arm around Gil's neck, forcing his head back, and sliding a knife into his stomach.

_Shitshitshitshithshit_.

Gil struggled blindly, but the man restraining him was _big_, and the knife found its home in his abdomen several more times before one final resting place near his heart. The man twisted the knife and whispered something in Gil's ear—it took him a moment to process the Russian—before letting him slide to the floor.

_This is for our brothers_.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth, but maybe it was just the blood. He couldn't _see_, couldn't hear, his body automatically began to panic for him even though, really, he had nothing to fear—even as he lost all feeling in his limbs and felt the familiar heaviness of death settle in around him.

When Gil woke, gasping and spitting out his own blood, the power was back and Irena was screaming—though not for long; her cry was cut off and followed by a thud.

_Shit_.

As his vision came back into focus, his fear was confirmed; she had fainted. Well, she wasn't the first and she wouldn't be the last. Gil forced himself to sit up, his head spinning, the taste of blood still in his mouth, but couldn't get any further than that, he was still recovering. He was unsurprised to see that he'd been lying in a pool of blood; his shirt was soaked with the stuff, and it clung to his skin as he turned around as best he could to survey the damage done to his office. The window had been shut, but many of the papers were ruined and all of them were scattered around the room.

Irena groaned and stirred, and he managed to force himself to crawl over to her side as her eyes fluttered open. "Don't move," he muttered, the words coming slowly to him. "Don't for—for ten minutes." He thought that was the right amount of time but he wasn't entirely sure. "Are you bleeding anywhere?" His words were blessedly becoming less slurred.

"I—I don't think so," she said faintly. Her face was nearly as white as Gil's. She was also soaked, her dark hair plastered to her face in ringlets.

He nodded and sighed, resting his head on a bent knee. "Sorry I—I scared you."

"You were dead," she whispered, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling directly above her. "You were _dead_. You had no pulse, you were—"

"Trust me, I know I was."

She shook her head slightly and muttered something he couldn't quite catch; it sounded like either an oath or a prayer. Maybe both. Gil decided not to ask.

"Where were you? You shouldn't be out so late."

"I….I'm sorry."

"That didn't answer my question." He glanced down at her, frowning, but she wasn't looking. "Were you with your mother?" She nodded; he sighed. "If anyone had seen you—"

"I know. I'm sorry."

He sighed again but didn't speak for several minutes. "D'you think you can walk?"

She nodded; he staggered to his feet and held his hand out to her as she sat up; she hesitated briefly, her trembling hand hovering just above his, but she accepted his help and he pulled her to her feet. He wasn't entirely sure _he _should walk, but he managed to help her to her room without either of them collapsing. He also managed to return to his office; he leaned against the doorframe, pinching the bridge of his nose. The blood would be much harder to clean tomorrow, but there was no way he'd be able to take care of it tonight. Yet another sigh. He'd just have to deal with all these problems in the morning.

Wagner's office was flooded with early morning light; Gil sat down without being invited. He didn't like telling Wagner this sort of thing, but there was no helping it; someone—two someones—had successfully broken in and killed him. Even if his death had been incredibly temporary, it shouldn't have happened in the first place. Wagner needed to know, even if it filled Gil's mouth with a bitter taste.

"You look tired," the general remarked dryly.

"I had an…unexpected adventure last night," Gil replied in the same tone. "Which is why I'm here."

Wagner leaned back, fingers steepled, as Gil told him what had happened; his face darkened with every word.

"This is unacceptable," he muttered when Gil was done. "This is—" He waved his hand emphatically with a disgusted grunt.

"I didn't get a good look at them, either. They could be anywhere."

"Oh, _naturally_."

"_Hej_, I'm not happy about it, either."

"I never said you were." He rubbed his temples. "_Ach_, this is a bigger headache than I was hoping to deal with today."

Gil scoffed. "You're telling me."

"No, no, I meant—_ach_, I forgot to tell you. We have two new handymen working for us now."

Gil raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yes. I don't remember their names." Wagner rolled his eyes. "It's not important."

"Why?"

"Oh, they came _highly _recommended."

"Let me guess who recommended them," muttered Gil.

"She only recommended one, actually." The dryness in his voice had returned. "I'm sure you'll keep a close eye on both of them, of course."

Gil glanced at him, suspicious. "Are you…ordering me…to watch them?"

It was Wagner's turn to scoff. "Of course not. You'll do it even if I ordered you _not _to." He paused briefly before looking up at Gil. "Just…please, don't keep any thoughts about them to yourself."

Leaning back cautiously, to avoid any additional pain, Gil frowned at the general, studying his face.

"What?"

"I think I may have been underestimating you," Gil replied.

The barest hint of a smile graced Wagner's face. "I'm afraid I _am _going to have to ask you to keep _those _particular thoughts to yourself."

Gil grinned. "Naturally."

Irena was on her knees, the sleeves of her brown sweater rolled up past her elbows, scrubbing the floor when he returned to his office. She paused, glancing up at him, but neither of them said anything and he made his way stiffly to his chair and all but collapsed into it and she resumed her work. Sitting up straight hurt, slouching hurt, everything hurt and he wanted to sleep. The overwhelming smell of peroxide only added to his headache, and, instead of sleeping, he rested his head in his hand and watched as Irena made the stain vanish through half-closed eyes. He felt bad for making her clean, but having several stab wounds in his chest and abdomen made physical activity difficult and he didn't need the cleaning lady seeing anything as suspicious as a dried pool of blood. Not that she would have asked questions; no one who worked for them asked any questions, except Irena and even she knew to be selective about it.

"Did you know about the new handymen?" he asked her.

She paused again. "I knew about the one Olga Nowakowa suggested to General Wagner. There's another one?"

"Apparently."

She frowned, rolling back onto her heels. "He wouldn't have been suggested by _Pani _Nowakowa, then, I think," she mused. "General Wagner was reluctant to accept her _first _suggestion."

"Was he?" That was interesting.

She hesitated, biting her lip. "According to Hanna, yes."

Gil frowned, bemused. _I really did underestimate him, didn't I?_

If Grobinsky lived to be a hundred, he'd never forgive Olga Nowakowa for this. He'd been "working" for Wagner for a week now, and he despised every minute of it. It was infinitely worse than his initial exile to Warsaw; no matter what he did, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were onto him. He couldn't go anywhere without being watched, it seemed, and even when he was at "home" he couldn't sleep because what if he didn't wake up?

Wagner and Beilschmidt were both on high alert, too, of course, even if they never said as much. Grobinsky knew, and he knew why. Nowakowa had sent a couple of diversions to "assassinate" Beilschmidt, but he wasn't convinced that they would be an ample distraction.

First of all, there was the other handyman, who Grobinsky just _knew _was working for the Poles. He almost certainly knew what side Grobinsky was on, but neither of them brought it up. _If he turns me in, I'll return the favor_. He had no doubt the other felt the same way.

Then there were the secretaries. Nowakowa had mentioned them in passing before, but she clearly thought them below her attention. Her mistake.

In fairness, Grobinsky didn't see them often; no, they wouldn't have it widely known that the secretaries of the two highest ranking men in the building were Jews, even though they both wore the star on their chest. They _seemed_ like normal teenage girls, but Grobinsky didn't trust them for a moment. There was a _reason _they were in the position they were, he was _sure _of it.

The tall one, Irena, was easy enough to figure out. She made a fantastic thief; Beilschmidt was certainly using her as a spy. Of course, she was going behind _his _back plenty, but that was to be expected.

It was Hanna who confused him. She was so _timid_, and Grobinsky didn't _think _it was an act—but maybe he was just bad at reading people. Or maybe he was just paranoid. Maybe it was all of the above.

He had been especially paranoid the last couple of days because his identification papers were _missing_ and he couldn't just go to Nowakowa and ask for new ones. He'd been very lucky no one had asked to see them, but he was dreading the walk home that night.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he almost ran into Irena on his way downstairs; luckily for her, she managed to sidestep fast enough to avoid a collision.

She leaned smugly against the railing and _tsk_'d. "You ought to watch were you're going. That'd be the second time this week you ran into me, if I hadn't been able to see you from a mile away."

That was the other thing about Irena; she was incredibly _annoying_. She had a knack for digging under people's skin; normally, he might have found her amusing, but he knew that, however unofficially, Beilschmidt would take her word over his—and he didn't intend to underestimate her pettiness.

"Too bad you couldn't see me the first time," he shot back, passing her.

"Who says I didn't?"

He turned back to look up at her once he heard the unmistakable rustle of paper. She was waving his identification papers from her position several steps above him; the long bruise-purple shadows of twilight exaggerated the smug grin on her face, turning it into something almost grotesque.

"You _bitch_," was all he managed to say. "Do you have _any _idea what could have happened to me—"

The grin on her face said that she knew damn well what could have happened to him. "Nothing as bad as what could happen if someone finds out they're forged."

He lunged at her, grabbing at her ankles, but she evaded him, looking down at him as he fell face first. He froze, but no one seemed to have heard him; or, at least, no one seemed to care.

"_Give me those_," he hissed, pushing himself up.

"S'pose I gave them to _Herr _Beilschmidt instead?"

"_S'pose_ I told Zimmer you were stealing his medicine?"

The smile was gone; she glared at him, mouth open slightly as she searched for a response.

Grobinsky stood, and stepped up toward her; she didn't back away. "You see," he said, taking the papers back from her easily, "that's why kids shouldn't try and blackmail adults."

"_I'm sixteen_," Irena protested; she had to glare _up _at him now that they were on the same level, and he couldn't help smiling down at her as he hid the papers in his shirt.

"Tell me, then, what's a sixteen-year-old girl want from me, that she felt the need to try to blackmail me?"

Irena glanced down, shifting her feet. "I…you're a spy right? You're good at…at finding stuff out?"

"Of course." _Depends on your definition of "good." _

"Well, I…there's…." She dropped her voice so low Grobinsky could barely hear her and glanced around them nervously. "There's something about _Herr _Beilschmidt."

_Oh, no_. She was in too deep and she didn't even realize it. Grobinsky almost felt bad for her.

"What sort of something?" he asked aloud.

She fidgeted. "A…about a week ago now, I—I saw him in his office." She looked back up at him, dark eyes wide. "He was dead." Her voice was hollow.

_Oh, no, oh, no_.

"He had no pulse, he was in a pool of his own blood. He was _dead_. And then—and then he _wasn't_."

Grobinsky took a deep breath. He wasn't supposed to tell anyone about the countries; strictly speaking, he wasn't supposed to know himself.

"I know how—how _crazy_ it sounds, but—"

"I believe you," he muttered. He could remember seeing Russia come back the first time; he'd never been a religious man but there was something so utterly _horrifying_ about seeing it happen without knowing what it was—

"You know already," she whispered. "Don't you?"

Another deep breath. "Listen, kid, I'll—I'll give you a deal. I'll tell you who Beilschmidt really is—you don't have to believe me, but I swear I'll tell the truth—but _you _have to give me any information you have on him, no questions asked. Alright?"

She frowned, looking away again. "I…I don't know about that."

"Are you siding with him, then?"

Her frown deepened. "No. I'm just not so sure I'm siding with _you_."

That was fair; he let her think about it for a moment. "What…what sort of information would you need?"

"Any and all of it." Beilschmidt was the missing variable; no one could get close to him. No one but his secretary. And Grobinsky already knew she'd be good at finding information.

She pursed her lips for a second, then offered him her right hand. "Fine. But you _have _to tell me who he is," she demanded, looking up at him, jaw set stubbornly. "Or I won't give you any information."

Grobinsky smiled despite himself as he shook her hand. "I will," he said.

And then he leaned down so he could whisper in her ear, and he told her.


	18. Endor

"_**So Saul disguised himself and put on other clothes and went there, he and two men with him. They came to the woman by night. And he said, 'Consult a spirit for me, and bring up for me the one whom I name to you.'…Then the woman said, 'Whom shall I bring up for you?' He answered, 'Bring up Samuel for me.' When the woman saw Samuel she cried out with a voice….**_

_**Then Samuel said to Saul, 'Why have you disturbed me by bringing me up? ...Why then do you ask [of] me, since the LORD has turned on you and become your enemy? The LORD has done to you just as he spoke to me…tomorrow you and your sons will be with me.'" –1 Samuel 28:8-19**_

_**B.S.S.R.**_

_**May 1942**_

Every time Zaslavsky thought he had finally adjusted to being around the ghosts, he found himself proven wrong. There was simply no getting used to the cold he felt when he accidentally walked through one of them, which happened often because most of them didn't bother showing themselves most of the time. It wasn't a normal cold; it sank immediately into his bones and, it seemed, into his very _soul_, until he stepped away from the ghost in question and the warmth of the living world returned to him.

Kovalevskaya did not like the ghosts; Zaslavsky thought she was actually angry with Arlovskaya about them. She avoided them at all costs, and, when she spoke with them or Arlovskaya, she did so crossly and curtly.

In fact, all of the men were at least uneasy around them, as was Arlovskaya's contact with their next destination, a man named Aleksandr Ivanovitch. He was a simple man with a plain face and unremarkable light brown hair and hazel eyes; his skin was tan and leathery from a life spent as a farmer, but there was a certain quickness to his eyes that Zaslavsky couldn't help but to notice. He was letting the men stay in his barn, which was currently devoid of livestock but full of itchy, irritating hay regardless and, as someone had pointed out, it still _smelled _of livestock. But it had four walls and a roof and kept the ceaseless rain off their heads, so Zaslavsky chose not to complain. It also came with hot meals and fresh bread baked by Aleksandr Ivanovitch's wife who wisely stayed away from the men.

Arlovskaya and Kovalevskaya had the privilege of staying in the house, and the ghosts roamed as they wished, death blessing them with indifference toward the elements and the inability to track mud through houses. There were about twenty of them; most ghosts, Arlovskaya had said—and Zaslavsky had seen—that night chose not to manifest as whole people. The memory of the spectral arms and legs and lonely heads of children visited him every night when he tried to sleep; blessedly, Arlovskaya had taken with her only the complete manifestations.

One of them—who, in life, had been called Doctor Mikhail Lyevich Aleksandrov—appeared before Zaslavsky without warning. Of all the ghosts, he showed himself the most often and seemed the closest to Arlovskaya; he was the only one Zaslavsky felt remotely comfortable around.

"Natalya Ivanovna wants to talk to you," he said; Zaslavsky glanced around at the men lounging around the barn. None of them seemed to notice—the doctor must have only been revealing himself to him. He stood, wincing a bit at the faint pins and needles in his legs, before heading into the late afternoon drizzle and making his way to the house. He took his boots off once he was inside so he wouldn't leave mud everywhere and made his way to the small kitchen. He caught a glimpse of Aleksandr Ivanovitch's wife darting out of the room before turning his attention to Arlovskaya and Kovalevskaya, who were sitting at the table. The ghost of the doctor stood behind Arlovskaya; Kovalevskaya lips were thin, her dark eyes narrow.

"You wanted me?" he asked Arlovskaya stiffly. He didn't _want _her to know that he was terrified of her, but she probably did anyway.

"Yes," she answered calmly. "I'll be taking a couple of men with me to a nearby village. And most of the ghosts," she added dryly.

"When will we leave?"

"Not you."

He stared at her, unable to come up with a response that wouldn't offend her.

"We'll be going undercover," she explained. "You're missing five fingers and half your face. You'll stand out too much."

"Don't worry, you're not alone," Kovalevskaya commented sourly. Arlovskaya shot her a look.

"She's in charge, of course, and you're still second in command. I don't know how long we'll be gone, but you're to stay here unless there's a _very _good reason to leave." She paused, waving her hand dismissively. "There shouldn't be, though, so don't lose any sleep or anything over it."

Zaslavsky almost asked her if she'd used some kind of sorcery on the farm in order to make that happen, but stopped himself, afraid of how she'd react. Instead, he nodded curtly; she dismissed him without telling him anything else.

It had been nearly two weeks since Arlovskaya had left. The barn was beginning to feel cramped; all of the men were restless. Zaslavsky had taken to pacing around its perimeter. The sound of the rain pounding on the roof refused to fade into background noise. It remained ever-present, a reminder of their misery; today, its tempo matched the throbbing in Zaslavsky's head, intensifying it. He was afraid he'd go mad from the waiting, and he doubted he'd be the only one. He probably wouldn't even be the first.

Aleksandr Ivanovitch, dripping from the rain, entered the barn solemnly. Everyone paused, everyone seemed to hold their breath. Aleksandr Ivanovitch took a shaky breath before speaking.

"I…I'm afraid I have some bad news. Natalya Ivanovna…Natalya Ivanovna is dead."

It felt as though Zaslavsky had been punched in the gut; he couldn't find his breath. He couldn't process it. She was a sorceress, first of all. She shouldn't have been even remotely easy to kill. He didn't really want to think of the implications of that.

Dazed, he made his way to Aleksandr Ivanovitch. He would believe that Natalya Arlovskaya was dead when he saw her body.

Aleksandr Ivanovitch's understanding came wordlessly; he nodded at Zaslavsky and let him and Yuri Erikovitch follow him without comment back to the house. None of them bothered taking their shoes off before making their way to a small bedroom.

Arlovskaya lay on the bed, clothes bloodstained, not breathing. Kovalevskaya sat on the mattress next to her; she glared up at Aleksandr Ivanovitch as they crowded into the room. The men she'd taken with her to the village the wall somberly.

"I told you not to tell them," Kovalevskaya snapped.

The look on Aleksandr Ivanovitch's face said he wasn't likely to take orders from the likes of _her_; Zaslavsky almost didn't notice how strange her comment was, he was in such a state of shock.

Doctor Aleksandrov appeared at the headboard; he glanced down at Arlovskaya briefly, indifferently, before scanning the men in the room with narrowed eyes. Zaslavsky couldn't help but wonder if ghosts could read minds.

_What do we do now? _he thought. _What will Duchovny do to us, now that she's dead?_

One of the men who'd gone with her sighed mournfully. "It's our fault, we should have protected her—"

"Oh, honestly, there's nothing _you_ could have done," retorted Kovalevskaya.

Zaslavsky grimaced, wondering if escaping to the countryside was a viable option—true, he didn't speak Byelorussian, but he'd learned Polish from the Pole who shouldn't have been in prison with him easily enough.

His plans were interrupted by a gasp from Arlovskaya.

_What—?_

He turned to her; she jerked up reflexively, coughing violently and spitting out blood.

Zaslavsky had never believed in God, even after encountering ghosts, but she had been _dead_—no mere witch could come back from the dead. He sank to his knees in awe; beside him, the others did the same, some crossing themselves.

Arlovskaya's dark blue eyes were out of focus for a minute; Kovalevskaya was helping her sit up, but when she saw their reactions, she smiled. It was a terrible, horrifying smile; the smile of a madwoman, her own blood dripping from her mouth, but Zaslavsky realized at that moment that he was in the presence of someone _greater_ than him. Not a witch who could talk to ghosts, no, and he was filled with awe in a way he never had been in his forty years. He finally understood so much—about religion, about _devotion_—he felt like a new man entirely.

He would have acted much differently if he'd realized from the start that he was in the presence of a goddess.

The village was hardly worth noticing; Zaslavsky didn't even bother remembering its name. That wasn't important.

What was important was aiding Arlovskaya in her mission.

He was crouched in the shadows cast by the setting sun behind one of the buildings the fascists had taken as quarters for their soldiers; his job was simple. Above the door, on the inside, a symbol had been carved; his job was to carve a line through it, breaking its power so the ghosts could finish the job. What, exactly, their job was, he hadn't asked. It wasn't important. What was important was doing what Arlovskaya had told him to do.

There was a ring of open sky around the village and the valley it was in; from her position on the top of the hill directly to the north, Nata could see the rain falling on the rest of the countryside. It was growing dark, but not quickly enough for Aleksandrov, who was pacing behind her, feet a good inch above the ground.

"He should have been back by now."

"I don't care if he comes back," she said. "So long as he broke the spell."

"This is why Uzbekistan didn't come with."

"No, she didn't come with because she has strong feelings regarding necromancy."

"This isn't necromancy."

She scowled. "_Point_ is, she disapproves of this—"

"You are cheating."

She glared at him, though he was hard to see in this light. "I'm provoking Romania—"

"By killing his men as they sleep. And you won't even bloody your own hands to do it."

"Are you doubting—?"

"Natalya Arlovskaya, I am bound to you until you release me. I will do as you say. I don't have to like it."

She wished she could make out the expression on his face; she turned away again, scowling at the horizon Zaslavsky should have appeared over by now.

"I know why you're doing it this way," the former doctor said, somewhat gentler. "But even you can't protect every village—"

"Then what am I good for, if I can't protect my own people?"

Aleksandrov didn't get a chance to answer; Zaslavsky had finally returned.

"It's done," he said, slightly out of breath. She smiled.

"Good." Now came the hard part—waiting.

Summoning was a familiar ritual to her, though it had been decades since she'd done it on such a large scale. Overhead, the black circle of the new moon loomed. It was time; she walked around the circle clockwise three times before she started to say the old words, Zaslavsky and Aleksandrov watching from the cover of the trees, identifiable by the faint glow Aleksandrov gave off.

The stars grew dimmer for a moment before first the edge of and then the entire circle began to glow with the same pale blue glow Aleksandrov gave off, only much brighter—the clearing might have been lit by the midday sun.

Gradually the ghosts took shape. Some of them, she noticed from their clothes, were very old; it was possible some were older than she was. They all looked mean—_Good_.

What they thought of her she could only imagine. It didn't matter.

"Why have you summoned us?" one of the oldest asked, approaching the edge of the circle—but they were all still trapped within it.

"I need you to do something—"

"Obviously. What is it?"

She took a deep breath. These were not—yet—bound to her the way Aleksandrov was. "Enemies have invaded the village in the valley."

"You want us to kill them?" he asked with a grin.

"Not all of them." The grin faded slightly. "But most of them."

"I can do that."

"Only the enemy. There are other ghosts standing guard in front of the houses you're to leave alone."

"And when we're done?"

"So long as you don't bring any further harm to the village, you may do as you wish."

The ghosts muttered amongst themselves for several minutes; Nata was beginning to grow anxious but at last he returned to the edge of the circle. "We will do this thing for you if you will free us from this world."

She hadn't expected that. "I can do that," she said, smiling wryly.

"Do you mean that?" he asked, eyes narrow. "Will you free us?"

"I will. May Perun strike me down if I do not."

That seemed to satisfy him; he nodded. "If we disobey your orders, we will remain trapped here as spirits."

Nata stepped forward, confident that they would obey her, and broke the circle; the ghosts vanished.

"What now?" Zaslavsky asked after a moment.

Aleksandrov answered. "We wait. Again."

Romania was shorter than Aleksandrov would have thought; Arlovskaya had warned the ghosts to stay away from him, lest he catch onto her presence, but the once-doctor was there now in the building full of dead men. None of their spirits had lingered, he noticed.

The nation stood out in more than stature, though; his auburn hair looked even redder in the sun, and he almost seemed to have _fangs_. Natalya had warned him that some countries looked more _human_ than others and that Romania was somewhere on the less-human appearing end of the spectrum, but he hadn't understood what she meant by that until now.

Mircea Ionescu—that was his other name, Aleksandrov remembered. He seemed a bit baffled, and more than a bit upset. Not that Aleksandrov could fault him for that, fascist or not. A couple of officers had also been spared, and they were there with him. He told them to leave softly, and they hesitantly obeyed.

Then the nation turned to Aleksandrov, scowling. Aleksandrov froze; he'd thought he was invisible.

"Did _you _do this?" he asked, his voice thick.

"No," Aleksandrov answered.

His lips thinned. "Do you know who—no, never mind. I know."

Aleksandrov could only float there awkwardly. He might not have approved of Natalya's decision, but he wouldn't betray her, either. Romania started to walk away, but he turned back.

"Tell her I want to talk to her, will you?"

He left the building full of dead men before Aleksandrov could respond.

Nata frowned at Aleksandrov's message. She couldn't claim to be surprised, though she had been hoping to put off the confrontation. Romania's magic was better suited for combat than hers was, and now she wouldn't even have the advantage of surprise.

She sighed. Why was liberating such a small village such a _headache_.

"Go back and find him," she ordered the once-doctor, "and tell him I'll meet him in the town center at twilight."

Aleksandrov nodded and vanished; she sighed again before turning to the ghosts she'd summoned last night.

"Thank you," she told them.

"Will you fulfill your end of the deal?"

She nodded and began to recite the old blessing.

The village might as well have been abandoned. There wasn't even the rustle of leaves she'd grown used to in the forest, only silence in its purest form. Twilight had stained everything deep blue and purple and had contorted and stretched shadows to grotesque proportions. A thin fog lurked at the edge of the village, circling it like a cat unsure of whether or not it should pounce on its prey.

The sound of approaching footsteps alerted her to Romania's presence; she turned to face him.

He looked _angry_; his face was pale and drawn and his hands were shaking.

"Do you have any idea what you've _done_?" he demanded.

"It's good to see you, too," she retorted. "Of course I know what I've done, I'm the one who's done it."

He spat on the ground and shook his head. "Have you forgotten how magic works, or do you really hold human life in so low esteem—"

"I didn't kill your men with magic," she retorted. "I asked some ghosts to do it, that's all. They weren't even bound to me."

Obviously appalled by this, Ionescu's mouth opened slightly, closed briefly, then opened again when he managed to find words. "Well, one way or another, I can't let you just walk away after this."

Nata sighed dramatically, flipping her silvery hair behind her shoulder. "I was afraid you'd say that."

His eyes narrowed; Nata glanced at him, dragging her hand, fingers spread and bent, through the air, feeling it drag between her fingers like ice water. She could feel her own temperature rising as Ionescu's breath began to cloud in front of his face.

The fog began to creep toward them; he swung his arm, trying to keep it at bay, but both it and the cold continued to close in on him. He muttered under his breath and a wind blew the fog back. She'd been expecting that, though, and it did not stay away long. The shadows seemed to move of their own volition; she ignored whatever demons might be lurking there. It was just her and Ionescu and their own magic. No one and nothing else.

The wind Ionescu had summoned picked up rapidly, blowing her hair in her face; she shoved the air violently in his general direction, but it wasn't enough to keep the fog on his heels. She swore loudly, voice lost in the howling cyclone. Gritting her teeth, she tried again—this time the wind and fog moved together, and the wind died as quickly as it had risen.

_Oops_. She'd never quite gotten the hang of controlling wind. Wrapping the fog around her, so dense it was almost solid, she went looking for Ionescu. It didn't take long to find him; a glowing purple-red sphere floated an inch above the palm of his hand as he tried to find his way. His eyes were crossed slightly and he was bleeding from his temple; well, that would heal soon enough.

She drew her knife; it must have made more of a sound than she'd have thought, because he turned to her and threw the magic sphere at her at the same time she threw the knife at him. Luckily for her, he was weak and the magic only caused her to stumble backward.

He hadn't been so lucky; her knife had sunk deep inside his stomach. He was on his knees; she made his way over to him.

"Do you give up?" she asked, bored.

He spat blood in her face, and she drew another knife, burying it in his throat.

"Are you sure about this?" Aleksandrov asked Nata as she put her feet up on the desk.

"Are you ever going to stop asking me that?" she asked.

"When you stop giving me a reason to."

"You sound like Lithuania."

Zaslavsky was not at the office with them; she had tasked him with taking the townspeople away, somewhere safer. Just in case something went wrong.

The once-doctor sighed as best he could but didn't respond.

They didn't have to wait long; a German soldier walked in as she lit a cigarette. He stared at her; she did her best to look condescending and intimidating at the same time. No easy task for someone as small as her, and he drew his gun. She took a drag from her cigarette before saying in heavily-accented German, "Oh, don't waste your bullets on me. Is Ludwig Beilschmidt with you?"

"Why?" he asked, approaching her.

"Tell him Natalya Arlovskaya wants to talk to him."

He hesitated, but left the building without another word or, thankfully, firing the gun.

Germany took no time to arrive; he scowled down at her and she realized she'd seriously miscalculated just how _big_ he was—_Nowhere near as strong as Vanya, though._

"You did this?" he asked in the countries' language. "Where's Romania?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "You can have him if you want. If not, I understand."

His frown deepened. "Why are you still here, then?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Why haven't you drawn your gun and shot me already?" Flicking the ashes off her cigarette, she stood, regretting it. She didn't even reach the man's shoulder, for the love of all that was holy. Nata shrugged and looked up at him, hoping she could remind him just how much _older _than him she was. "We'll meet again," she said with what she hoped was a cryptic smile as she walked past him fearlessly. "Ionescu is in the basement. He's not _too _hurt."

Head high, smirking, she walked through the enemy ranks, Aleksandrov following her, invisible to them. When she was sure they were a safe distance, she turned to him.

"Did you get it?"

He handed her the bundle of letters. "D'you know how much _energy _it takes to make other things invisible? How'd you even know he'd have them, anyway?"

She shrugged, glancing over them. "Little bird told me."

"Mm." He paused. "Natalya, you can't protect every village."

She frowned at him. "That doesn't mean I'm not going to try."


	19. Revelations

"_**The truth…is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution." –J.K. Rowling**_

_**Warsaw**_

_**May 1942**_

Wagner frowned at the setting sun from his office window; Hanna should have been back an hour ago. He sighed. She'd probably been distracted by Irena. He wasn't opposed to their friendship—it to be expected, first off all, in their situation—except when it got in the way of what either of them was _supposed _to be doing.

Well, Hanna was obviously not going to come back herself.

They were always in Beilschmidt's office; whether by Beilschmidt's order or her own choice, Irena rarely left the top floor. He leaned against the doorframe, watching them—they were talking, but they were switching back and forth between Polish and Yiddish and he had no idea what they were saying.

Irena, sitting at the desk, saw him first; she froze, then stood, and Hanna, turning to him, did the same. Neither of them looked especially terrified, so he assumed they hadn't been talking about anything important and decided not to ask them about it.

"You're late," he said dryly.

Hanna grew pale. "I—I'm sorry, I—I—"

He waved his hand dismissively. "If it were something important, I'd have gone looking for you earlier." Bemused, he frowned at the two of them. Hanna, hands clasped as she stared at her feet, was as timid as ever; Irena, too, was looking at the ground, but there was always something about her that made Wagner doubt how submissive she really was. Maybe it was the stubborn set of her jaw, exaggerated by her sharp, almost masculine features, or maybe it was the way her shoulders never hunched, despite her height, that led him to feel that she was looking away from him less out of fear than of _dislike_.

Regardless, she was Beilschmidt's problem, not his, and he ignored her as he crossed the room to Hanna. He brushed her not-quite-blonde hair behind her ear gently; he could see Irena tense from the corner of his eye. At this proximity, it would have been difficult to miss. He glanced at her, and she seemed to shift her gaze away. He smiled slightly, moving his hand to rest on Hanna's shoulder. He'd long thought that Beilschmidt kept her around as some kind of entertainment; he was beginning to guess what kind of entertainment that was.

"Is something wrong?"

Irena started, clearly surprised that he was addressing her. "No, _Herr General_." Her voice was steady, and she looked up at him, briefly, and did not seem afraid.

He squeezed Hanna's shoulder—gently, he didn't want to hurt her—and told her to leave, to wait for him in his office. She looked up to Irena before nodding and turning toward the door. It was the first time he'd ever seen her hesitate to obey an order he knew she understood.

Irena was making no attempt to hide that she was staring at him now. Well, he usually ignored her, after all.

He sat in the chair in front of Beilschmidt's desk and frowned at her, thoughtfully. Her deep brown eyes met his, devoid of emotion. She did not ask him what he wanted, but seemed content enough to wait for him to speak. Or, perhaps, too wary of him to initiate conversation.

"You and Anja seem close," he said casually.

She frowned slightly. "I suppose we are."

"It's to be expected, of course."

"I hadn't meant to make her late. I apologize." Her German was stiff and formal, but almost without accent, he noticed.

"As I said, if it had really been important, I'd've gone looking for her sooner." He lapsed into silence, waiting several minutes for her to break it.

"Is there something you wanted, _Herr General_?"

"You're the one who told Beilschmidt what _Herr Doktor _Zimmer was doing."

She froze, eyes widening slightly.

"It wasn't hard to figure out, of course. You had been assisting him at the time, _oder_?"

"Yes, I was," she said softly.

"Why?"

"_Herr _Beilschmidt only told me what I was to do, not why I was to do it."

"He wasn't trying to spy on Zimmer, was he?"

Irena hesitated, biting her lip. "No, I don't think so."

"You just thought he might appreciate the information."

Her cheeks grew darker. "I—"

"I do, too, of course, even if I'm somewhat belated in saying so." He stood abruptly, walking around the desk so he was standing next to her. He'd never noticed how tall she was before—easily as tall as Beilschmidt, going just past his own shoulders. He smiled down at her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

She frowned at his hand. "I—am glad to hear that."

He squeezed her shoulder and she gasped softly and almost seemed to flinch away from him. Almost. "Your loyalty to _Herr _Beilschmidt is quite admiral, considering—well."

She smiled. "Thank you, _Herr General_."

He patted her shoulder before leaving. Hanna was waiting, after all.

Gil sank into his chair with a deep sigh, throwing the reports from the east on his desk before leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose. He was rocking the chair back, thinking he should turn the light on but too frustrated to bother doing it, when Irena's voice came from the far corner of the room.

"What's wrong?" she asked; his chair went crashing down, him with it.

"_Heilige Mutter_!" he exclaimed, one hand nursing the back of his head, the other over his heart. "Don't _do _that."

She had flipped the light on by then, and she quickly crossed the room to him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I thought you knew I was in here, I'm sorry." Her face was pale; he frowned.

"What's wrong with _you_?"

She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then opened it again. "I—General Wagner was in here earlier."

"What the hell did _he _want?" Gil asked, standing up and brushing himself off. His hands were shaking slightly, he noticed, frowning.

Irena blushed. "Well, Hanna had lost track of time, and—"

Gil scowled at her.

"—and then he—well, she left the room first, he told her to, but he—" She took a deep breath. "He knows that I'm the one who told you about _Doktor _Zimmer."

All thoughts of Arlovskaya and her pesky magic left his head; he stared at her. "He _does_?"

She nodded. "He—he said it was pretty obvious. Since I'd been assisting him at the time."

Well, that was fair. Wagner wasn't a complete idiot, after all. He sighed and almost sat on empty air before remembering to pull the chair up first. "I take it he wasn't horribly upset about that fact," he muttered dryly.

"No, he said he appreciated it."

Gil steepled his hand, leaned forward, and muttered, "Zimmer wouldn't appreciate it, I imagine."

She didn't answer and he sighed again. "Look, if _he _ever finds out, I won't let him anywhere near you. I promise. Alright?" He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye to see her nod.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

He returned his attention to the reports in front of him, and the letter from his brother.

Truthfully, it was the letter that concerned him the most. Ludwig hadn't gone into detail about much—Romania and Bielorus had gotten into a duel and he had lost. Shortly thereafter, Ludwig had shown up in the village and had a "puzzling" conversation with Arlovskaya, after which some "sensitive documents" had gone _missing_. Adding to his brother's frustration, the human higher-ups had determined that Romania was "no longer fit to command" given his "humiliating defeat at the hands of a Slavic woman who calls herself a witch"—Gil might have laughed at that if the situation hadn't been so serious. Arlovskaya was far from an ordinary woman, and she was certainly more dangerous than any witch. Ludwig's frustration lay in the higher-ups' lack of belief in magic; Gil's concern lay in what the letter hadn't mentioned: what had happened to Romania. Not that the two had ever been close or anything, but, well, Gil himself was involved in some…questionable things at the moment, and he'd like to have something of an idea of what would happen if he were to be caught.

"My brother's visiting next month," he said. "For. Several reasons. None of which concern you." He frowned. "He's…more important than I am," and he was pretending not to let that sting him, "so I'm warning you now, you'd better not cause any trouble."

"I won't," she promised, face white. Gil's lips thinned. She was afraid of him, sure, but he could guess how much she disliked him.

"I'm not asking to save my own reputation or anything," he said. "Your life will depend on it; he won't be alone."

"Of—of course."

He scowled at her. There was so much she would need to do differently... "You'll have to get into the habit of acting like they'll want you to act. We'll work on that."

Her face only grew paler, and she nodded, wordless. It was, he thought, probably a good thing after all she was afraid of him now. It wouldn't do for someone who was _actually _important to think she was comfortable around him, after all.

Grobinsky leaned against the stairwell, lighting a cigarette. He hated every extra minute he had to stay in the hornet's nest, but he also needed Irena's information and there was no way in hell she would be able to leave the building without permission. The stairwell proved an excellent meeting place, especially around twilight, when no one was around. It was secluded and dark—the only light came from the distant hallway and Grobinsky's cigarette—but not a suspicious spot, either.

"D'you have to smoke inside?" Irena asked from his right; he jumped and nearly dropped his cigarette.

"Don't _do _that," he snapped; she smirked.

"Sorry, I didn't _mean_ to sneak up on you."

"Yeah, I'm sure," he muttered. "Do you have anything useful?"

"His brother's visiting next month," she said casually, leaning against the stairs so she was facing him.

Grobinsky stared at her. "_What_?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, something about several reasons that aren't my concern."

Scowling, he asked, "I don't suppose you figured out what those reasons are."

"No."

"You're not nearly as good a liar as you think you are."

"Obviously I am, or I'd be dead."

"What're the reasons?"

She fidgeted, glancing at the floor, an uneasy frown on her face. "Look, I…." She took a deep breath. "I'm not sure I want to do this—"

Grobinsky balked. "_Listen_, kid, you don't get to just back out of this," he hissed, stepping closer to her. "We made a deal, I fulfilled my end of it. Now it's your turn."

She made a face, still not looking at him. "I—I know. It's just—"

"Why on earth do you feel any loyalty to Beilschmidt, especially knowing what he is?"

She finally met his eyes, defiant. "Who said it was about him? Maybe I've decided it's not such a good idea to betray my country—"

"You're not betraying your country." He knew it was a lie as much as she did and was not surprised when she scoffed.

"You think _I'm _a bad liar."

"Look, kid, I gave you top secret information. The kind that'll get you killed—"

She laughed; it was a bitter, harsh laugh, and it made it his stomach churn to hear it come from a sixteen-year-old girl. "If someone were looking for an excuse to kill me, it's right here," she said, gesturing at the star sewn onto her sweater. "And don't pretend you Russians are any better in that regard."

He frowned at her. "Who said I'm Russian?"

She gave him a look that said _oh, please_ with a level of condescension that would have put Nowakowa to shame. "You have an _accent_, idiot."

"No one's said anything!" he protested.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, the Germans would _definitely _be the first to tell if you were a foreigner because of your accent." Scoffing again, she said, "Honestly, have you _heard _Wagner's Polish?"

He huffed. "Well, at least Wagner and I have bothered learning it."

"You're a _spy_, aren't you supposed to do that sort of thing?"

"You'd be surprised," he muttered.

"Surprised about what?" Kowalski, the second handyman Grobinsky was sure was working for the Poles, asked from behind Irena; Grobinsky jumped slightly, and Irena rolled her eyes at him again.

"The size that ravens can get. Apparently it's quite large," she said coolly, turning so her back, rather than her shoulder, was against the stairs.

Kowalski looked, understandably, like he didn't believe her for a second, but Hanna, standing next to him, said, "Oh, yes, they can. They can actually be somewhat intimidating."

"See, I told you," Grobinsky said, deciding to play along and pray it worked.

"Alright, fine, I was wrong for once," she replied, pretending to be offended.

"City girl," he muttered; she kicked his shin and he glared at her. Kowalski laughed, though his hazel eyes remained dark and serious.

"Hey, now, there are ravens in cities."

"Yeah, but there are more in the country." He had no idea if that was true, or even how they'd gotten on the topic in the first place. He took out another cigarette and offered it to Kowalski, who shook his head in refusal.

"No, thank you," he said, and there was ice in his voice. "My mother taught me that it's unchristian to smoke."

Irena was obviously covering up her laughter by pretending to cough; Grobinsky ignored her. He'd heard her thoughts on Christianity before.

"I think God's got more important things to worry about at the moment, but suit yourself," he said, shrugging as he returned the cigarette to his pocket. Kowalski's eyes narrowed, and Grobinsky wondered if he'd struck a nerve.

"All the same, I'd rather not," he said coolly.

"I said, 'suit yourself,'" Grobinsky muttered. "Just thought I'd be friendly."

Kowalski's lips thinned; the hairs on the back of Grobinsky's neck stood on end. He'd been counting on mutually assured destruction to save him from the other spy, but he'd heard—_Irena _had heard rumors—of Poles and Germans teaming up to hunt Partisans, and he frowned at Kowalski warily. "I appreciate the offer," he said, clearly forcing the words out. "But now you know."

"I'll be sure not to do it again." He stood up straight. "Goodnight, _Pan _Kowalski."

"I was actually about to ask if you wanted to grab a drink."

Grobinsky forgot how to breathe; it was so obvious from the look on Kowalski's face that he _knew_. "Were you now?" he managed to say.

Irena had been watching the two of them in silence, but she stepped away from the stairwell abruptly. "C'mon, Hanna," she said, brushing past Kowalski. "These _goyim_'ll be at their dick-measuring contest all night." Grobinsky watched wordlessly as the two vanished into the darkness.

That was when Kowalski swooped in on him; he moved so there was less than an inch of space between them. "Listen, bastard, I know who you are—"

"So I gathered," Grobinsky said coldly, wishing Kowalski were shorter so he would appear more intimidating, but their heights were too close to make a difference.

"—and I'm warning you, leave the girl out of it."

That hadn't been what he'd expected at all. "I could say the same to you," he retorted. "Hanna's been through enough already, don't go putting her life at risk over a lost cause."

"It's not a lost cause," Kowalski hissed.

"Keep telling yourself that," Grobinsky said, turning to leave. He was too tired, too stressed, to deal with this particular problem at this particular moment, even though he was sure he'd regret it later.

Hanna followed Irena to Beilschmidt's office without a word. Moonlight flooded in through the window, softening the brunette's sharp features. Irena sat on the desk, and Hanna stood next to her, a little embarrassed by her shortness.

"What were you really talking about?" she asked; Irena looked away, and Hanna took her hand gently.

"It's not important," Irena muttered after a moment.

"Irena, I—it's fine if you don't…if you don't trust me." It was not at all fine, but Irena didn't need to know that. "I'm just—I'm worried. I'm scared, Irena, you're—you're all I have." Her face was hot; she hadn't meant to get so emotional, but now Irena was staring at her, mouth open slightly.

She slid off the desk, dropping Hanna's hand so she could adjust her skirt, then, with shaking hands, moved to brush Hanna's hair behind her ears.

"Hanna, I—it's not that I don't trust you, it's not that at all! I just—I'm scared, too," she whispered. "I'm so, so scared, I—I know things I shouldn't—someday, when we're safe, I'll tell you, I promise, I—"

She couldn't have said why she did, but Hanna suddenly stood on her toes and kissed Irena lightly on the lips, effectively silencing her.

The two stared at each other in silence for what felt like an eternity; Hanna's face was bright red, and her heart was racing. Just when she was sure Irena would go back to hating her, she cupped Hanna's face in her hands and kissed her back—and, despite the incredible, insane _danger_ of it all, in her embrace, Hanna, for the first time in years felt safe.

_**Translations**_

_Oder? _(German) Technically, "or," but also used at the end of sentences to make them questions (sort of like "right?" in English).

_Heilige Mutter_ (German) Holy Mother, i.e., the Virgin Mary.

_Goyim _[גויים] (Yiddish) Gentiles/non-Jews. The singular form is ים, _goy_. It has a…somewhat negative connotation.


	20. Promises

"_**I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it." –Maya Angelou**_

_**Warsaw**_

_**June 1942**_

Hanna Ratajczakówna was somehow both nothing and everything Feliks had expected. She was a small person, easily dwarfed by Markowicz and Jósef Kowalski—which was not his real name, but it was the only name Feliks knew him by—and she was trying to make herself appear smaller out of shyness. Beilschmidt had never really described what she looked like: dark blonde hair falling in gentle curls past her shoulders, hazel eyes wide, making her look more timid than she probably was. She was hugging herself, glancing around nervously, clearly uncertain about her new surroundings.

She had probably not anticipated showing up in his kitchen any more than he had. Kowalski had brought her with him without warning, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that. It was incredibly, stupidly dangerous for her to be there, first of all, and Kowalski, in Feliks's experience, tended to be reckless.

He hadn't even realized he'd been using her as an informant until then, and the thought left him a little uneasy. Sure, she had access to stuff no one else did, but if she was _caught_….

Markowicz was talking to her, trying to get her to sit down, relax for a bit, and Feliks tensed. No, she should absolutely _not _relax, none of them should, there were so many things that could go horribly, horribly wrong—

He forced himself to take a deep breath. _I'm turning into Toris, all this worrying_. There was no denying that the danger was real, though, even if it seemed that only he and Hanna Ratajczakówna acknowledged it.

Markowicz had managed to get her to sit at the table, and she was staring up at him anxiously.

_Don't look at me like that_, he thought, _I'm too anxious to deal with your anxiety, too._

Feliks held his hand out to her—not thinking until after fact that she might perceive that as rude—but to his immense relief she shook it. "Would you like some tea or…something?" he asked, grateful that his voice was steady. It was an odd thing to ask this time of night, he realized, but, well, she was still his _guest_. Even if he hadn't actually invited her.

She shook her head. "No, thank you," she said, barely audible.

Feliks nodded and sat next to her. Kowalski wasted no time in beginning to give his report—obviously he didn't consider anything too important for Hanna Ratajczakówna to hear; Feliks was having a hard time hiding his irritation, and Markowicz was openly frowning at him.

"…Oh, and Germany's supposed to be coming in about a week—"

The looks on Feliks's and Markowicz's faces were finally enough to get him to shut up; he glanced, nervous, at Hanna Ratajczakówna, who was frowning at the table, obviously confused.

She wasn't supposed to _know_, that was the problem. Feliks thought, generally, that it was a stupid rule—and he, technically, was not bound by it the way Beilschmidt was—but her life would be in serious danger if anyone found out that she did. The worst thing, of course, was that if he and Markowicz had remained unmoved, he could easily have dismissed it as a codename—but their reactions were sure to have given _something_ away, and the last thing she needed to do was start prying. Not that she seemed the type, in normal circumstances, but curiosity did have a knack for making people stupid.

"_Pan _Kowalski," Markowicz said with all the kindness of an exasperated parent, "may I speak to you in the other room for a moment?" He grabbed his arm and dragged him into the living room without waiting for a response.

Feliks had to resist the urge to slam his forehead into the table. He needed a cigarette. But smoking or sighing loudly in frustration or pinching the bridge of his nose in this situation would be rude, so he turned to the girl sitting next to him. _I should say something, I should really say something, this is really awkward—but what to talk about? _Feliks was no good at small talk.

The silence dragged on; Feliks's arms were crossed, and he was digging his nails into his flesh so hard it was starting to hurt. Every muscle in his body was tense, and it was taking a huge amount of concentration to prevent himself from rocking back and forth. It had been fine with Markowicz and Kowalski in the room—Feliks knew _them_—and of course it was ridiculous to be intimidated by Hanna Ratajczakówna of all people. She was clearly as anxious as he was, staring down at her lap where she was wringing her hands beneath the table.

He wondered what Markowicz and Kowalski were talking about that it was taking so long. He took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry it's so late," he said softly, causing her to jump.

"It's—it's alright, really."

It really wasn't; he was pretty sure Beilschmidt would protect her in most situations, but he was also sure that he would draw the line somewhere around "sneaking out at night in order to help the Resistance."

"How long have you…known about _Pan_ Kowalski?" he asked her.

She hesitated. "A…couple of weeks, maybe?"

The urge to sigh was overwhelming. Feliks wondered who, exactly, had appointed Kowalski to this position, anyway.

"Listen," he said out loud, "if you don't want—it's really dangerous, no one'd blame—" _Deep breath_. "There's no shame in—in—if you don't want to do this." _It's probably better if you don't._

She frowned and shook her head slightly. "I—I know it's dangerous," she whispered. "But I—if there's anything I can do to help, I can't just—I can't let myself _not _do that." She looked up at him, and he could see her unspoken question in her eyes. _You understand, don't you?_

Of course he understood. He bowed his head slightly. "I…understand. Just…please, be _careful_."

She nodded, but Markowicz and Kowalski returned before the conversation could go any further. Judging from the look on Markowicz's face, it was a miracle Kowalski had left the living room alive.

_It'll be a miracle if any of us make it out of this alive_.

Hanna's favorite spot was the floor behind Beilschmidt's desk, where she and Irena could hold hands as Irena worked, even if it was starting to get hot and stuffy and the setting sun managed to be in her eyes for several minutes each evening. As often horribly chaotic as Irena could be, there was also something calming about her presence—certainly, there was something calming in her touch, especially when she rubbed her thumb in circles on the back of Hanna's hand.

Hanna had been feeling more uneasy than usual the past few days, ever since Kowalski had told her what he claimed to be the truth about Beilschmidt. She wasn't sure how much she believed him, but, well, that night in Feliks Łukasiewicz's house….

"Is something wrong?" Irena asked, frowning down at her.

Shaking her head, Hanna answered softly, "Nothing more than usual."

Irena's lips thinned; she let go of Hanna's hand before moving to sit in front of her on the floor. Taking both of Hanna's hands in hers, she said, "Listen, you can tell me _anything_—"

Hanna, on a whim, moved to hug her. It was an awkward hug, with Hanna leaning over Irena's legs, her arms wrapped around her neck, but Irena was quick to return it. "I think this is all I need right now," she murmured into Irena's shoulder.

Irena squeezed her before saying, "No offense, but let's rearrange ourselves first."

Hanna smiled and moved away; Irena moved so she was leaning against the desk, legs crossed, before patting her lap. Hanna immediately sat in it, leaning into Irena who once again wrapped her arms around her. It was _hot _in Irena's arms, and Hanna was worried that she was uncomfortable, but she was also terrified of being alone, so she stayed there until well after the sunlight had faded from the room. She was dreading going back to her room in the basement—it was better than Wagner's room, but that really wasn't saying much—but she also knew that she'd end up in trouble if she stayed with Irena much longer. Especially if Kowalski was right about Beilschmidt….

She didn't really want to think about that.

Hanna was in a forest. She frowned, a bit confused. She knew she was dreaming, first of all, which was an oddity in and of itself, but she almost felt like she was awake. She could _feel _the warmth of the sun on her back, the light breeze stirring her hair. She could smell, too; the breeze carried a warm, earthy smell, and she thought there was a hint of pine there, too. Quiet birdsong joined the rustling of green leaves overhead; to her right was the sound of running water.

She headed toward that and quickly found a stream so clear she could see all of the polished-smooth rocks that made up its bed. A single leaf drifted lazily downstream; a doe on the opposite bank stared up at her, then resumed drinking, unbothered by her presence.

On a whim, Hanna removed her shoes and socks and waded into the water, gasping at how _cold _it was. Even in the dream, she had gooseflesh, but she slowly moved toward the middle, allowing herself to adjust to the temperature. The doe had stopped drinking and was watching her as she hiked her skirt up—because the hem had gotten _wet_—and Hanna wondered how close she could get before the doe ran away. She continued moving forward; she held her breath, trying not to make too much noise as she moved through the water, hand outstretched as the doe blinked at her. Her fingertips brushed the velvety fur between the doe's eyes and she inhaled sharply in response. The doe continued staring at her; if Hanna hadn't known any better, she'd have said the doe seemed amused. Since she was only ankle-deep, she let go of her skirt and moved to pet the doe's neck. After a moment of this, the doe nuzzled her hand like a dog and Hanna laughed. This at last caused the doe to run, melting into the dancing light and shadows beneath the trees, and Hanna sighed, alone again.

She woke suddenly, but did not feel alarmed; in fact, she felt more awake than she had in—well, in years, if she was being honest. She frowned, sliding out of bed and stretching. It had been an _odd _dream, to say the least, but she wished she could return to it.

That was impossible, of course, and, taking a deep breath, she began her routine of getting ready to face the day. _One day at a time, that's the key. One day at a time_.

For reasons which had not been made clear to Grobinsky, everyone who worked in the building—everyone who wasn't _German_ who worked in the building—had been summoned to the front hall. He'd never spent much time there, but he realized then that, at one point, the building had been a hotel. Either the Germans had been very thorough in their redecoration or it hadn't been used as such in many years, but it definitely _had_ been, once.

Of far more pressing concern was the line of people in front of a very angry General Wagner and an even angrier Doctor Zimmer. Grobinsky fell into place beside the mute woman who did the laundry and Kowalski who, for once, was silent. He could see Hanna and Irena at the far end of the room, whispering to each other. Their voices joined a low hum of others; Grobinsky had never quite processed how many people worked there until everyone was in the same room.

The hum died down as Zimmer stepped forward. Grobinsky didn't think he'd ever caught a glimpse of him in daylight; he was a pale, short man with beady blue eyes. He smiled, showing his teeth, and Grobinsky shuddered at the sight. He was _pissed_.

"Someone in this room has been stealing medicine," he said, and Grobinsky's heart skipped a beat. Sure, Irena was annoying, but thinking of what Zimmer would probably do to her—

The doctor wasn't done yet, though. "But there's really no need to worry. The thief need only confess, and the rest of you will be allowed to leave."

Grobinsky couldn't _breathe_; they wouldn't seriously—of course they would. _Oh, God, Irena—_

A mad impulse nearly overtook him—he nearly stepped forward into the tense silence to confess—

But Kowalski beat him to it. _The man must have a death wish, after all_, Grobinsky thought, and immediately felt guilty about it—because as soon as he said he'd stolen the medicine, Wagner gestured to the soldiers lurking on the edge of the room and they swarmed on the Pole, forcing him to his knees.

Zimmer stepped toward him, and Wagner frowned but didn't say anything; the doctor produced a vial of clear liquid from _somewhere_, and one of the soldiers forced Kowalski's mouth open so Zimmer could tip the liquid into it.

Kowalski's screams would haunt Grobinsky's dreams for years to come; the soldiers dropped him, he was writhing on the floor, tearing at his mouth—until Wagner calmly stepped forward, drew his gun, and put an end to it.

The silence following the gunshot was somehow worse than the screaming.

Grobinsky forgot how to breathe; he was pretty sure he wasn't even blinking. He had seen men die, of course, had seen them blown apart, but there was something _different_ about this.

_It could have been me. It could have been Irena, it could have been any of us—it could have been all of us. _

Zimmer and Wagner were frowning at each other, but, if they were going to have an argument, it would be in private; two of the soldiers moved to drag Kowalski's body outside. Wagner turned away from Zimmer. "Hanna and Irena, you two clean this up," he said, gesturing to the pool of blood and other stuff on the floor. "The rest of you can leave." He and Zimmer left at the same time, but headed in different directions; everyone but the girls and Grobinsky filed out after all the soldiers had gone.

Grobinsky forced himself to focus on the girls for a moment. They were both deathly pale and visibly shaking; he took a deep breath before saying, "I'll help you two."

Hanna started, as though she hadn't realized he was there, and moved closer to Irena, who wrapped her arm around her shoulders. Irena's dark eyes met his, briefly, but theirs was another conversation that would have to wait a bit. She nodded.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely.

He nodded in response. "I'll—I'll go get the stuff to—I'll be right back," he promised; she nodded again, and he turned and went to find cleaning supplies.

When he returned, two very heavy buckets full of hot, soapy water and old rags the mute woman who did the laundry had given him in hand, the two were clinging to each other, Hanna's face buried in Irena's shoulder as Irena stroked her hair. Irena froze when she saw him, and Hanna stepped away, wiping tears from her eyes. Grobinsky took a deep breath; putting off the task wouldn't make it any more pleasant.

Of all the sights Gil was expecting when he returned, the gruesome one before him had been on the very bottom of the list. It took him a moment to think of what to say to the three of them; he had wanted something from Irena, but couldn't remember what suddenly. She was the one who saw him first, and she stopped scrubbing the floor to sit back on her heels. Her face was pale, and Gil felt sorry for her and Hanna and the handyman whose name he could never remember; there wasn't much left to see, but he'd seen enough bloodstains to know one when he saw it.

"Where's Wagner?" he asked, not processing it was in German until Irena replied.

"_K—keine Ahnung_._Wahr—wahrscheinlich im B__ü__ro_." Hanna and the handyman had also stopped at this point to stare up at him.

He frowned at that. "Right, then," he muttered to himself. Aloud and in Polish, he said, "You, go wait in my office."

She blinked rapidly, and he frowned at her in such a way that she understood not to question him; she stood, dropped her rag in one of the buckets full of pink water, and slipped out of the room.

He almost asked the other two what had happened, but decided that he'd just ask Irena later. Not that he wasn't going to ask Wagner first, but he wasn't sure Wagner would be honest. Irena, on the other hand, was very bad at lying when she was emotional.

It was dark when Gil entered his office; he turned the electric light on, trying to ignore its headache-inducing peripheral flicker. Irena was sitting on the floor by the empty fireplace, knees drawn to her chest and face buried in her arms. She'd stretched the sleeves of her brown sweater over her hands, he saw; he sighed and sat down cross-legged in front of her.

"_Hej_," he said softly. She finally looked up, eyes puffy and red, chin resting on her knees. He wasn't sure what else to say; after a moment, he settled on, "Wagner told me what happened." _That _had been a fun conversation, but it wasn't his main concern right now.

Her face disappeared again.

"I-I'm really sorry," he said. "You shouldn't've had to—"

She muttered something he couldn't make out.

"What?"

Irena adjusted her head so her face was still hidden but he could understand. "I said, 'It was me,'" she whispered, voice rough. "I'm—I'm the one who stole the medicine. Not—not _Pan_ Kowalski."

Gil took a deep breath, leaning back. _Well, shit_. He'd have been lying to say that he was entirely surprised, but _still_. _Of course it was you_.

"I never—I never meant for—for….For this to happen. Never, I never wanted—"

"I believe you."

She took a shaky breath and muttered something in Yiddish.

"What?" he asked again; she shook her head and didn't answer. He sighed. "Irena, I—" _Shit_. "I'm not going to hurt you, you know."

There was no response.

"I'm not angry at you." That wasn't entirely true, but she didn't need to know that. She would almost certainly feel guilty for the rest of her life, that, Gil knew from experience, was punishment enough and then some. Besides, one of them ought to remain calm and put together, and that role was definitely not going to fall on Irena tonight.

She looked up at him, wary.

"I'm not your father."

There was a pause, but she nodded at that and seemed to relax a bit. "I feel—"

"I know," he said. "I know."

She nodded again. "Why…why won't you hurt me?"

"I know why you stole it."

She frowned, and Gil sighed again, running his fingers through his hair. "Listen, Irena, I—I'm not gonna punish you for helping people." That sentence should not have felt like a confession, but it did, and that made him uneasy, so he decided to change the subject. "Anyway, have you had anything to eat today?"

A moment's hesitation, but she shook her head and he stood stiffly and gently touched her head. It was meant to be affectionate, though it felt a bit awkward; he didn't linger, though, but turned to find something for her to eat.

Grobinsky was still shaking and nauseous as he slipped off to the corner stairwell he usually met Irena in. He wasn't sure if she'd meet him there; he wasn't sure he wanted her to. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, as he forced himself to _breathe_. He hadn't been so shaken in years. In battle, it was one thing to know that the enemy didn't care much who they were shooting at.

This was different. Maybe he felt so sick because he knew Irena was the real thief, but he doubted it. He remembered the look on Zimmer's face. It didn't really matter if the real thief was killed, so long as the point got across—so long as the medicine was no longer stolen.

"You shouldn't be here so late," Irena said softly.

He looked up at her; she'd obviously been crying. "Neither should you."

She sat down cross-legged in front of him, carefully adjusting her skirt so her knees were still covered. She took a deep, shaky breath. "Maybe not. I don't know."

"You should stop—"

"I know. I will."

"Will you?"

She frowned at him but didn't say anything.

"Listen, kid—"

"Irena."

"What?"

"My name's Irena. Not 'kid.'"

"I know that—"

"Well, only four people act like they do, and two of them are Nazis."

Grobinsky sighed. Why did she have to make everything so dramatic? "You sure you wanna be on a first-name basis with me?" he asked, trying to force a smile.

She shrugged. "It's no more rude than 'kid.'" She made a face. "Besides, I'm…pretty much used to it at this point."

"Irena, then. Listen, don't go causing trouble, it's not worth it."

"You don't want me to cause trouble, but you still want me to report on Beilschmidt?" Irena asked, eyebrows raised.

"_Listen_ to me!" he hissed. "A man _died _for you today—"

"You think I don't know that?" she said, voice cracking. "You think I've already—already forgotten that—that I—I—I had to—to—" She gave up and buried her face in her hands.

Grobinsky grimaced. That had been too harsh. Hesitantly, he reached out to her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

She tensed but didn't look up.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I…I really shouldn't have said that."

She exhaled, relaxing and looking back up at him. "No," she agreed timidly. "No, but it's—it's true, isn't it?" She laughed shakily, running her fingers through her hair. "I'm really an awful person, aren't I?"

"No, of course not," Grobinsky said immediately. "I mean, you—you were stealing from the Nazis to help people who needed that medicine far more. You probably saved lives."

She snorted. "Maybe. But I let—I should've said it was me, I should've—"

"Listen, Irena, Kowalski made his choice. It's not like you were forcing him to step forward." He almost told her that it had almost been him, almost, but didn't.

She frowned.

"Besides, you think _you're _a bad person?" He laughed. "Look at me. I'm a mess because I've always been the one on the other side of the gun."

She didn't seem to have a response to that; he sighed. "Tell you what, after we win the war—"

"I'm glad _someone's _optimistic still," Irena muttered.

"—I'll personally make sure that you never want for anything again."

She frowned, clearly taken off guard, but her shock didn't last long. "Hanna and my mother, too," she demanded.

He blinked. "Yeah, sure, them, too." _As long as I'm making improbable promises_.

Irena nodded, satisfied.

"See, you're not a bad person," he said. "If you were a bad person, you wouldn't've thought about them."

She frowned, not convinced. "Maybe." A pause. "_Pan _Adam, I was wondering…."

Grobinsky started at the use of his alias. "Ilya," he said after a moment. "My…my real name's Ilya."

Irena stared at him; he shrugged.

"Ilya, huh? I like Adam better. It's my mother's brother's name."

"It is?"

"Mm."

"What…happened to him?"

Her brow furrowed. "I...I don't know," she said. "I…haven't seen any of my extended family since I was seven."

"How's that?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, my parents moved to Warsaw before I was born, but my family's originally from Białystok. Well, my mother's father is actually originally from a Sephardi family in Bulgaria, but that's another story."

The fact that her grandfather was from Bulgaria actually explained quite a bit about her appearance, but Grobinsky figured it would be rude to mention that. Instead, he said, "Anyway, what were you wondering?"

"Oh," she said, "I'm just….Well, Germany's coming in a few days….It's weird to think about it that way, but that's not what I—"

Grobinsky had almost forgotten about that. "No, it's understandable."

"_Anyway_, what d'you think'll happen?"

He took a deep breath. "Honestly, not much that concerns us, I think."

"Well, if we weren't spies."

"Yeah. No, I think it's mostly…just to see how things are going. With Poland. You and I probably won't see much of him at all."

"I'm not going to complain about that," she muttered.

"Nor I, but you…you shouldn't worry, either. Prussia seems intent enough on keeping you alive, his younger brother isn't likely to go against him. The only one of us who _does _have something to worry about is me," he mused. "But even then, only if Poland himself makes an appearance." He grimaced a bit at the thought. Poland had already proved willing to work with the Germans if it meant stopping the Soviets, he didn't really want to tempt fate more than necessary.

"Why's that? Have you met him before or something?"

He nodded. "That," he said wryly, "is another story, though."

_**A/N and translations:**_

"_Feliks held his hand out to her—not thinking until after the fact that she might perceive that as rude…"_ \- Orthodox Jews don't allow (unrelated and unmarried) men and women to have any physical contact (unless it is in order to save the other person from some kind of danger). Hanna, however, is not Orthodox, and therefore doesn't have a problem with shaking Feliks's hand.

_Keine Ahnung_. _Wahrscheinlich im B__ü__ro. _– No idea. Probably in his office. (Irena is making a contraction here where there shouldn't be: in German, contractions are made with prepositions and [some] articles, not possessive pronouns, so _im B__ü__ro _technically translates to "in _the _office;" she means to say _in _seinem_ B__ü__ro_.)


	21. Strife

"_**At some point, being angry is just another bad habit, like smoking, and you keep poisoning yourself without thinking about it." –Jonathan Tropper**_

_**Moscow**_

_**June 1942**_

Toris woke with a start from a dream that fled his mind as soon as he opened his eyes. He was curled up next to Ivan, though he didn't remember falling asleep there; the last thing he remembered was feeling drowsy in his office. He wondered if Ivan had carried him to his room after he'd fallen asleep. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, though it was hardly the first time he'd done so.

Judging from the amount of light in the room, it was already midmorning. He sighed; Ivan's arms were wrapped around him, so he wasn't likely to be going anywhere until he woke up. It was _hot _in his arms, though, and Toris tried to wriggle free; Ivan stirred, then slowly opened his eyes.

"Litva?" he murmured, voice still slurred from sleep.

With a sigh, Toris said, "I can't move."

"Oh. Sorry," he said, rolling onto his back; now freed, Toris sat up and frowned at him.

"We've slept late," he said, somewhat crossly.

"Mm. I see _you're _in a good mood this morning," Ivan replied teasingly, reaching up to play with a stray lock of Toris's messy hair.

Toris scowled. "I didn't finish my work yesterday," he said, pushing Ivan's hand away.

"You fell asleep, of course you didn't," was Ivan's response; he moved so his arms were crossed under his head.

"I should have been working on it today, is the point I was getting at," Toris snapped, frustrated by the other's laziness. _If he tries to tell me I shouldn't focus on work so much, so help me—_

Ivan sighed. "It doesn't matter, Toris."

Toris could only stare at him in furious shock for a moment. "It doesn't _matter_? _You're _the one who gives me so much in the _first _place, because you can't be bothered to do anything yourself—"

Staring blankly at the ceiling, Ivan interrupted softly. "Natasha should have been back nearly two weeks ago."

The anger vanished, replaced instantly by the sensation of being shoved into freezing water. He couldn't breathe; he leaned back against the headboard without really processing that he was. Why hadn't she come back yet, then? What had happened? He was sure they would know if she'd been captured—unless she'd been captured by someone who didn't know who she was, in which case there were even more horrible implications.

His thoughts were disrupted by the feeling of fingertips brushing gently across his lips. "Don't do that," Ivan muttered, "you'll scar yourself if you keep worrying your lips so much."

Toris hadn't even realized he was doing so, but stopped as soon as it was pointed out. He took a deep breath. "Why didn't you tell me when she was supposed to be back?" he demanded, now that the shock had worn off, though his voice was shaking slightly.

"I didn't want you to worry."

"So you thought you'd wait 'til _now_—?"

"Well, I was hoping she'd be _back_ by now," Ivan retorted. "Don't try and blame me for anything."

"I'm not blaming you for anything that's not your own fault."

Ivan glared up at him. "Oh, _honestly_, Toris, it's too early in the day for this."

"You're just avoiding the problem."

"And you're exacerbating it!"

"I am _not_."

"Oh, yes, you are. And it's not like you've got any room to talk when it comes to avoiding problems, anyway."

Toris scoffed, indignant. "Listen, I've every right to be worried about her—"

Ivan sat up abruptly, glaring at him. "Oh, yes, the man who's slept with my sister and didn't even have the decency to have an _actual _relationship with her—"

Toris's face was hot by the time he interrupted with, "_That's _what this is about?" This was an old argument, but it had been years since they'd last had it.

"You're damn right that's what this is about. And honestly, I don't know what's worse—that you've cheated on me multiple times, or that you've cheated on me with my little sister!"

"_First _of all," Toris said, trying to sit up in a way that made himself seem taller and probably failing miserably, "Natasha is a thousand years old, I think she's capable of making her own decisions."

"Oh, yes, which is why you're so overprotective of her."

"_Me_, overprotective? Look who's talking!"

"She's my sister, it's different."

"Sister or not, I think she deserves some of the blame in this. She knew we were together."

"Oh, now you're shifting the blame to her, too."

The few extra heartbeats it took to come up with a response were humiliating. "You can't blame just one person in this situation, that's not how it _works_."

Ivan's scowl intensified. "I'm not blaming my sister because you're a bad influence."

Toris laughed. "_I'm_ a bad influence? Have you _met _your sister? She's her own bad influence half the time."

"And you're the other half!"

Toris shook his head, sighing. "This is a waste of both our times, and you know it."

"You're the one who _started _it—don't just get up and walk away, we aren't done arguing yet!"

Rolling his eyes, Toris ignored him and continued to make his way to the bathroom. He scowled at his reflection; of course his hair was gnarled mess. Ivan had clearly not thought to pull it out of its ponytail last night, and now Toris was paying for his negligence. With a sigh, he started brushing it, yanking through the knots in his frustration.

Toris watched as Ivan appeared in the mirror, lurking behind him in the doorway, scowling. Toris glared at him through the reflection, not bothering to turn around. "We'll be arguing for _days _if we let ourselves, so let's just drop it, shall we?"

"No," Ivan said, crossing his arms.

Toris rolled his eyes again and continued brushing his hair, ignoring the man skulking behind him until he was done taking care of his hair. Then, he turned around at last, leaning back against the sink, his own arms crossed. "Ivan, we're never going to get anywhere with this argument. Let's just both agree that we're worried about Nata and move on with our lives." _Please, for the love of God. I can't handle any more stress in my life_.

Ivan glanced down at the floor stubbornly for a moment, then met Toris's gaze. "Fine," he muttered at last.

Toris's shoulders sagged in relief, and, as he went to leave the bathroom, Ivan caught him and pulled him into a hug, kissing the top of his head. He leaned into the hug for a moment, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around the much larger man as best he could in return.

It was another two weeks before Toris and Ivan walked downstairs late one morning to find Natalya sitting in the living room calmly drinking tea as Kliment Duchovny stared at her from his chair on the other side of the coffee table.

Ivan's first response was to glare at her disapprovingly; Toris raised his eyebrows at her. She ignored both of them and continued her conversation with the ghost of a man sitting next to her.

It was Dmitry Duchovny, sitting next to his father, who saw them first; he had the decency to look embarrassed that it hadn't been Ivan who invited the two of them and Starkov, on the other side of Kliment Ivanovitch, in. _Into the living room, no less_. It was not a part of the house human visitors—even nation visitors—got to see often. It was an intimate room, not a business room. But it was crowded today, with Zaslavsky standing beside Natalya and Katyusha leaning on the other doorframe, frowning at it all. She was the next to see the two of them.

"She's the one who invited them in, before you ask," she said; Ivan frowned at her.

"I assumed," he said dryly; everyone but Natalya and the ghost turned to stare at the two of them.

"I also already talked to her about the ghost."

"I'm right here," Natalya interjected, still not looking at him.

"Where's Fatima?" he asked.

She waved her hand dismissively. "Something about finally being able to take a real shower again."

Switching to Russian, Ivan turned to address the Duchovnys and Starkov. "Is there something you needed, or?"

Kliment Ivanovitch seemed grateful to have an excuse not to stare at the ghost; Toris couldn't help but to feel a bit—a _lot_—satisfied with his obvious discomfort. "Well, I had planned on discussing my concern with—with Natalya Ivanovna's, er, _delay_, but we arrived here at the same time and she invited us in, so."

Nata was making no effort to hide her smirk; Toris went to sit on the arm of the couch next to her, not really caring about decency, or the fact that he was probably being rude to Zaslavsky in getting between the two of them. She poked his knee in greeting. "You didn't worry too much, did you?"

"Nata, you were gone for a month longer than you were supposed to be."

She shrugged. "And? We were late getting there, thanks to Romania's weather magic."

"Romania was involved?"

"I'll tell you and Vanya what happened later. I managed to get ahold of some stuff that might interest you, by the way."

He frowned at her, but she'd returned her focus to the conversation between her brother and Kliment Ivanovitch. Toris was only half-listening, because half their conversation, as usual, consisted of veiled threats neither of them—God willing—would ever carry out. The rest was pure bureaucracy. Toris wondered when battle plans had become so _political_. Certainly they hadn't _always_ been.

Natalya joined in on occasion; it seemed she didn't intend to stay home very long. Toris wasn't sure how he felt about that, but he was pretty sure he knew how Ivan did; his face grew darker with every word—eventually the subject changed, but Ivan's mood remained visibly sour.

Toris had just started to truly zone out when he heard Ivan heatedly object to something someone had said.

"I've known _General-polkovnik _Grobinsky for nearly twenty-five years—I trust him with my life."

_ So to speak_, Toris added silently. Neither Kliment Ivanovitch nor General Starkov looked happy about his statement. _It was Duchovny who sent him away to Warsaw, wasn't it? Was it even Warsaw? _He couldn't remember. He'd met _General-polkovnik _Grobinsky a handful of times, but he'd never struck him as someone worth noting beyond the fact that Ivan was fond of him.

"That aside," Duchovny said, "he's a liability. If Łukasiewicz sees and recognizes him…."

Toris was leaning forward slightly; they had his full attention now.

Ivan rolled his eyes. "Łukasiewicz, need I remind you, is under house arrest, and not very likely to run into him by chance in the street or something. Besides, I seem to recall it was _your_ idea to send a decorated war veteran to work for your ex-girlfriend in the first place."

Kliment Ivanovitch's face was bright red; Dmitry was trying to hide his discomfort and failing. "Well—you might have mentioned that he and Łukasiewicz had met, anyway."

"When did they meet?" Toris asked.

Ivan glanced at him. "You and Łukasiewicz weren't on speaking terms at the time, if I recall correctly," he said dryly. Toris scowled at him.

"That doesn't narrow it down any," Nata muttered. "The two of them fight _constantly_."

Toris decided not to respond to that. "I meant, if it was a while ago, Feliks might not recognize him." That wasn't at all what he had meant, and Ivan's violet eyes narrowed.

"It was about twenty years ago," he grudgingly admitted.

"So, there's a decent chance Feliks Łukasiewicz _wouldn't _recognize him," Dmitry Klimentovich said; Toris almost laughed out loud at the look on his father's face. _Not even your own son will side with you, Duchovny_.

As Kliment Ivanovitch struggled for a response, Ivan said, "It depends on Łukasiewicz's memory. But I doubt he was paying much attention to Ilya Semyonavich….He certainly won't be expecting to find him in Warsaw."

"There's not really much we could do about it anyway," Dmitry Klimentovich said. "Besides, _General-polkovnik_ has provided valuable information, hasn't he?"

_Do the Duchovnys discuss state secrets over dinner or something?_

No one seemed to immediately have the answer to that, earning another eye roll from Ivan.

"He's our sole source of information on Gilbert Beilschmidt," Ivan said. "Surely someone so sure he'd made the right decision to send him as a spy would know that."

Kliment Ivanovitch glared at him. "Olga Nowakowa could very well get the same information on her own if she needed to."

"Which is exactly why she was sending us so much before assigning Ilya Semyonavich to him."

"It's not _my _fault Łukasiewicz keeps getting in the way."

Ivan laughed. "If you think this is him getting in the way—"

"Besides, Grobinsky's sources are almost certainly untrustworthy."

"That goes without saying. Anyone who knowingly helps a spy is up to _something_," Nata pointed out.

"Well, that, and there're two Jews—I'm not even going to _try _to pronounce their names—"

"Hanna Ratajczakówna and Irena Kowalczykówna, if memory serves," Ivan murmured.

"—Right, well, _anyway_—the one who works directly for Beilschmidt—"

"_Panna _Kowalczykówna, I think."

"—is most likely his main source. Unsurprisingly, she's probably quite willing to betray him—"

"Betray whom?" Nata interjected, rolling her eyes. "Beilschmidt? I'm sure no Jewish woman—"

"From what _Pani _Nowakowa has said, Jewish girl," Ivan corrected; Nata shot him a dark look.

"No Jewish _girl _can come up with a single valid reason to work against the Nazis," she finished sarcastically.

Kliment Duchovny muttered something about selfish motivations under his breath; Nata glared at him.

"Yes, heaven forbid the girl want to _live_. How horribly selfish of her. I'd say you should thank her for her help, but she clearly doesn't know that _you're _attached in any way, or she probably _would_ turn against Ilya Semyonavich."

The tension in the air was palpable. Dmitry Klimentovich seemed a bit confused, but wisely refrained from asking any questions. _He wouldn't like the answers very much, probably_, Toris thought with a grimace.

Kovalevskaya appeared in the doorway beside Katyusha. "What are we arguing about this time?" she asked, leaning against the other side of the doorframe, arms crossed.

Duchovny and Ivan both jumped and scowled at her; she scowled back at them. "Nothing important, then, I take it."

"Well, it depends on your definition of _important_," Starkov muttered; their glares turned to him and he shrugged. "Like Dmitry said, it's outside of our control now, we're wasting our time arguing about it."

Neither Ivan nor Duchovny appeared to have a response. Kovalevskaya rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm certainly glad to hear that. I don't suppose anyone bothered to mention what happened?"

"Sure we did," Nata retorted. "We got to the village late but then we beat the fascists and went on our merry way."

Kovalevskaya's dark, almond shaped eyes narrowed.

"And of course we met the ghosts on the way," Nata added; the ghost sitting next to her nodded in agreement.

Uzbekistan bowed her head, seemingly in agreement, but Toris had caught the look on her face; she was angry.

_That _was odd, she and Nata were friends and rarely fought.

"And there was another thing that happened, that you've left out."

"And I told you it wasn't something that was important."

"It was pretty important, if I recall correctly. Perhaps you remember differently, it'd be understandable, considering."

Kovalevskaya and Nata were shooting each other icy glares; Ivan and Katyusha exchanged glances.

"What was the other thing?" Duchovny asked, arms crossed as he glared down at Natalya.

She met his gaze fearlessly. "Like I said, nothing important."

"Oh, no, she only _died_," Kovalevskaya muttered—loud enough everyone could hear.

Toris could feel the temperature in the room dropping, but that wasn't why he was frowning at Natalya just then. Nearly everyone in the room was, and her otherwise perfect face was twisted up in fury.

"I've no idea why everyone's looking at me like that," she snapped. "It's not like I went out _wanting_ to die. Dying _hurts_, you know, I'd like to avoid it—don't look at me like that," she said to the ghost, who was also frowning reproachfully.

Toris could see his breath; the humans were shifting uncomfortably, not sure how to respond to the magic. All of them except Zaslavsky, that is, and Toris remembered suddenly that he wasn't supposed to _know_.

_Well, that's out the window now_. It was a stupid decision on Duchovny's part, anyway, not that he was the first person to make it. He was, however, now shifting his gaze from Nata to Zaslavsky and back to Nata again.

Nata also noticed this. "If you want to say something, then say it, don't waste our time," she said.

He frowned at her. "They weren't supposed to know—"

"They technically still don't," she retorted. "Because you were an idiot and wouldn't _let_ me tell them, so now I'm sure they've got all sorts of conspiracies because you couldn't swallow your pride for thirty seconds and give me permission to tell them."

One of _them_ was right there, but he didn't seem to mind.

Duchovny glanced at Starkov, who stepped toward Zaslavsky—but then Nata stood.

"I know what you're going to do," she said quietly, "and I'm telling you, if you take another step, I'll kill you before you can take a third."

Zaslavsky seemed entirely unconcerned by this turn of events, as did the ghost; everyone else was frozen.

Duchovny laughed quietly; it was not a pleasant sound. "You've got nerves of steel, Natalya Ivanovna, I'll give you that."

Nata raised an eyebrow, and the temperature plummeted; even Ivan was visibly shivering. Toris crossed his arms in hopes of finding warmth, but it wasn't a natural cold and he scowled at Natalya. Sure, she wanted to make a point, but did she have to make the room _this _cold?

She turned to Duchovny. "_I've_ got nerves?" she asked icily. "Yes, how very _brave _of me to challenge a human."

Duchovny's eyes narrowed but he didn't say anything.

"I'm over a thousand years old, Duchovny, and I've got more blood on my hands than you can even begin to imagine. Don't tell _me _to watch my step when I could destroy you without a second thought." Her lips curled back over her teeth slightly. "You've no idea what I'm really capable of, and you'd better pray you never see it for yourself."

With that, she promptly left the room, Duchovny and Starkov both stepping quickly out of her way. With her gone, the room quickly returned to its normal temperature, which felt far too hot to Toris—but maybe he was just imagining things.


	22. Collisions

**_"_****_All violence is the result of people tricking themselves into believing that their pain derives from other people and that consequently those people deserve to be punished." –Marshall B. Rosenberg_**

**_Warsaw_**

**_June 1942_**

Feliks was pacing back and forth in his kitchen; he had been since well before the sun was up. _It's just one day_, he told himself, but he'd been dreading this day. _Just one day and then I won't have to deal with them again_. His stomach was churning, his hands, clasped behind his back, clammy. _Just one day_. His kitchen grew steadily brighter, and he knew, without looking at the clock on the wall, that it was midmorning. He sighed and decided to wait in the living room instead; he forced himself to sit down but could _not _get comfortable. He tried every possible position, finally settling on lying upside down, on his back, head hanging off while his feet were pressed against the wall, hands clasped and resting on his chest. He wondered if they'd actually knock on his door when they came to get him, or if they'd just storm in.

He stared at the ceiling without seeing it, waiting for his question to be answered. His head _hurt_, and he had a feeling he'd have a hard time standing up once blood finally returned to his feet but his thoughts were interrupted by—

_Knocking it is_, he thought, sliding to the floor gracelessly. He quickly ran his fingers through his hair so he wouldn't look _completely_ terrible; he waited for the pins and needles in his legs to go away before taking a step—

He'd miscalculated the pins and needles and might have fallen if the doorway had not been available to grab; he grimaced, and there was another knock at the door. This one sounded far less polite than the first. Feliks rolled his eyes. Sure, he was _technically _being rude, but he had no desire whatsoever to be polite to whoever was on the other side of his door. It wasn't Beilschmidt—at least, not _Gilbert_ Beilschmidt—he was certain; if it had been, he would have already slammed the door open and dragged Feliks outside. He took a deep breath and forced himself to the door—forced himself to open it—

It was Wagner. He wasn't alone, but Feliks didn't know any of the men with him, and none of them looked important, anyway. It occurred to him that they were stationed around his house to enforce his arrest. He leaned sideways against the doorframe, arms crossed, hoping he looked somewhat intimidating and not like he was exhausted with pins and needles still prickling his legs.

The general seemed amused, and Feliks hoped he wasn't coming across as absolutely ridiculous. He wished he had the confidence to say something really biting, but Wagner beat him to it.

"_Guten Morgen_, _Pan _Łukasiewicz. I hope I didn't wake you." It was close to noon, judging from the sun's position in the sky.

"Not at all," Feliks said coolly, managing some semblance of a smile. He felt the skin of his lips stretch and start to crack; he realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd had anything to eat or drink. Well, there was no helping that now.

Wagner held up a pair of handcuffs and Feliks frowned.

"No," he said simply; Wagner's grin stiffened.

"I'd encourage your cooperation, _Pan _Łukasiewicz," he said coolly. "Today of all days, I'd encourage you to cooperate."

Feliks grimaced. "I'm not going to cause any trouble."

"I'm sure you won't, but this wasn't my idea."

That surprised him, but his expression remained unchanged. "Beilschmidt's?"

Wagner seemed to be holding back laughter at the idea of that. "No." Growing serious again, he said, "Listen, _Pan _Łukasiewicz, either you cooperate or we take you by force. The choice is yours."

_Haven't you ever heard of choosing your battles? _Toris had asked him once, long ago. Feliks sighed and stood up straight, pins and needles gone, before begrudgingly offering Wagner his hands; the general quickly handcuffed him before grabbing his arm and yanking him away from the door. He turned back—he'd left the door open—only to see one of the other men sliding past Wagner toward it. _They're going to search my house_—Beilschmidt really was exaggerating the amount of trust placed in him, after all.

"Don't break anything," he called lamely; Wagner actually laughed out loud at that, and Feliks felt his face grow hot.

"I'm sure they won't," the general said cheerfully as they started walking. "If they do, I'll personally pay you back for it."

Feliks must have looked as skeptical of this as he felt, because Wagner shrugged.

"Why not? It's rude to go breaking people's things, isn't it?"

"Tell that to your bomber pilots," Feliks muttered in Polish, hoping, too late, that Wagner hadn't heard him. The general's grip on his arm tightened, and his good mood seemed to be gone as he dragged Feliks through the streets, a prisoner in his own city.

Grobinsky had not been so nervous since the day Kowalski had died. The fact that everyone who worked in the building was once again lined up in what had once been the lobby wasn't helping matters, though the mood today was vastly different—and Beilschmidt was there. _Both _Beilschmidts were there, talking animatedly with each other. He wasn't sure why he took comfort in that—maybe it was the expectation that the human higher-ups around them would listen to them combined with the hope that they were more merciful than the human higher-ups.

Prussia would certainly look out for the girls; Grobinsky wasn't worried about them at all.

He was afraid because he knew Poland would be there, and if he recognized him—

Sure, it had been years since they'd last met, and he wasn't sure how much the nation had paid attention to him at the time, but that didn't stop his stomach from churning.

He glanced over at Irena; she and Hanna were both pale, their hands clasped in front of them, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

Zimmer was off in a corner, talking far too gleefully to one of the men who'd arrived with Germany for Grobinsky's comfort. Then, everything the supposed doctor did filled him with unease. He'd met a ghost, once, the first time he'd met Russia's sisters, and Zimmer seemed to give off the same aura of unnatural cold as the ghost had. _It's all in your head_, he told himself. _Zimmer's human. If only just barely_.

The room fell silent as Wagner entered, Poland, looking none too happy about it, in tow. Grobinsky decided to focus his own gaze on the floor before the nation could make eye contact with him. He'd managed to go this long without getting caught, somehow, better not to ruin that streak through a stupid mistake.

Feliks's wrists were already starting to hurt and he was already tired of dealing with people. He was also pretty sure that Wagner's grip on his arm was going to leave bruises.

He longed for his bed—alone, in the dark—and he loathed himself for not sleeping the night before. His head was throbbing, his stomach still uneasy—_If I get sick in front of them…._ No, he could keep himself composed enough not to do _that_. Probably.

Feliks noticed that Kowalski was missing from the lineup in front of them, and his heart sank. He'd been hoping the lack of word from him had been a safety precaution, but it wasn't looking like that was the case.

Someone who, judging by his uniform, was only slightly more important than Wagner, walked over to them. Feliks couldn't help noticing that neither Beilschmidt's face was readable—not horribly uncommon, in Feliks's experience, for Germany, but practically unheard of for Prussia. _They don't like him_. Now _that _was interesting.

He also couldn't help noticing just how big the new guy was—probably the same height as Germany and easily as muscular—and feeling just the tiniest bit intimidated. He'd always been small, but there was just no getting used to such massive size differences.

The strange man clapped Wagner on the shoulder; the general's response was a very obviously forced smile. _He doesn't like him either_. Oh, this could be _fun_.

"It's been too long, Matthias," he said stiffly, still not really smiling.

Matthias laughed at that; he was better at acting than Wagner, but Feliks didn't miss the coldness in his hazel eyes. "It has been, hasn't it, Johannes?"

Wagner didn't look especially happy about the use of his full name—now that Feliks thought about it, he'd never heard or seen him go by anything but Hans—but nor did he try to correct Matthias.

"Tell me, _Herr General _Bergmann," Prussia said dryly from his corner, his brother frowning down at him slightly, "what brings you here to Warsaw?"

"Why, the climate of course," Bergmann said. "It seems to be a popular spot for generals to take a holiday, I thought I'd see why."

Wagner's smile had faded into a grimace, and Prussia's face had turned to stone. Bergmann turned to the line of workers, pacing up and down its length three times before he stopped at the end where Hanna Ratajczakówna and—he guessed—Irena Kowalczykówna stood.

"A very impressive staff," he said. "Though I can't help but wonder at some of your choices." He said this glancing down at Hanna Ratajczakówna; even at this distance, Feliks knew she was shaking. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him; he studied her for several moments before saying, "You're sure this one's a Jew?"

"Yes," Wagner answered simply, his grip on Feliks's arm growing tighter; Feliks shot him a dark look but he didn't notice. Prussia did, though; he caught Feliks's gaze and shook his head slightly. Feliks scowled at him.

"What's your name?"

"Hanna Ratajczakówna, sir."

"You speak German?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long have you known it?"

"A—a couple of years, sir."

Bergmann seemed impressed, but Feliks suspected it was at least partly sarcasm. "You're a fast learner, then."

"It—it's not so different from Yiddish, sir."

Bergmann slapped her.

"It's _not_," Irena Kowalczykówna said hotly, daring to glare up at Bergmann. Feliks's breath caught in his throat; Prussia shot her an exasperated glare. "Yiddish is _based _partly off of German, of course the two are similar." Bergmann slapped her, too, but much harder—hard enough she stumbled back, pressing her fingers to her lip where it had split.

Two men—Bergmann's, probably—stepped toward her, but Prussia and a short man from a different corner stepped forward at the same time, and Bergmann motioned for them to stop.

"Yes, _Herr _Beilschmidt? Is something the matter?"

"I can take care of her on my own."

Before Bergmann could reply, the other man spoke. "I will personally vouch for that one's usefulness, if I may, _Herr General_." Something about his voice made the hairs on the back of Feliks's neck stand on end.

Bergmann frowned, glancing between the two of them before shrugging. "So long as she _is _dealt with," he said, waving his hand dismissively. Prussia immediately swooped in on her, grabbing her arm and dragging her out of the room; Feliks couldn't help sighing quietly in relief as Bergmann moved on down the line.

"Not a word until I know we're out of hearing," Gil hissed once they were out of the room. His grip on Irena's arm was probably too tight, but he didn't care at the moment. To his surprise, she actually kept her mouth shut until they reached his office and he slammed the door shut.

"You're hurting my arm," she snapped as soon as it was closed. He let her go, glaring at her.

"Do you _have _a death wish?" he hissed.

"He hurt— "

"And he'd have done far worse to you if I and—God help me—Zimmer hadn't been there."

"Well, then, it's a good thing you _were _there, isn't it?"

Gil had half a mind to slap her; her lip was still bleeding, though, and he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. He couldn't tell if she was _actually _being this stupid, or just difficult. He wasn't really in the mood to sort it out.

"Of all the times for you to talk back to someone," he muttered.

"I'll just go apologize to him, then."

"Absolutely not," Gil snapped, glaring at her again. She seemed taken aback by his anger. "You're going to stay right here. You're not leaving these rooms for as long as Bergmann's here—not to see your mother, not to see Hanna—" Irena started to protest but he cut her off. "You're staying _here_," he said, "and, when I leave, you're going to lock the door and not let _anyone _in except for me. Is that understood?"

She was glaring right back at him, and he couldn't help but notice that she was actually slightly taller than him. That didn't do anything to improve his mood. "How long is he going to be here?" she asked quietly.

"Are you aware of what he expects me to be doing to you right now? If he finds out I didn't, I'm sure he'd gladly—"

"_How long is he going to be here_?"

"I don't know. A couple days, maybe longer. Are you going to cooperate now, or?"

She dropped her gaze, glowering at the wall to her left. "Yes."

"Are you?"

She scowled at him and he sighed. "As long as I can still see Hanna."

"Fine, but only if she comes here."

Irena nodded curtly in agreement; a tense moment of silence passed.

"Let me see your arm," Gil said softly.

She started, hesitated, then slowly took her sweater off and rolled the sleeve of her dress up enough for him to see where he'd grabbed her. Gently, shakily, his fingertips brushed over the skin that was already starting to bruise.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"You didn't mean to," she said stiffly.

His frown deepened, but he stepped away from her. "I'll be back later," he muttered, before leaving his office quickly.

Bergmann had come to the last woman in line at last, though Prussia still had not returned; she was completely unremarkable, until he asked her for her name and she didn't answer. Before he could slap her, too, Wagner spoke.

"She's dumb, Matthias."

Bergmann seemed shocked. "Then what's she doing here?"

"She does the laundry."

Obviously incredulous, Bergmann continued to look her up and down; Feliks's nausea was almost unbearable.

"Shoot her," Bergmann said calmly—almost as though he were bored—and Wagner tightened his grip on Feliks's arm and twisted it just enough that Feliks almost cried out.

"What? Why?" he demanded.

Bergmann frowned at him. "You said yourself, she's dumb."

"I wasn't aware it was necessary to hold conversations with one's laundry woman," Wagner retorted.

"Well, I suppose it's less necessary than conversations with your secretary," the other general replied, in such a way that it was clear that "secretary" was not the word he meant. Hanna Ratajczakówna blushed, but her gaze was fixed on the floor directly in front of her. Wagner's lips thinned.

"She _works _here, you can't just—"

"Find a new laundry woman," Bergmann replied dismissively as two of his men dragged the woman outside. Feliks might have protested, if Bergmann hadn't met his eyes. "Preferably one that functions properly."

"What's this about finding a new laundry woman?" Prussia asked; Bergmann started.

"Your old one was broken, so I've taken care of the problem for you."

"Broken? She was perfectly capable of doing laundry, as you may have noticed by the clean clothes we're all wearing."

Bergmann rolled his eyes. "You lot are dismissed," he said to the rest of the workers; they all slipped off immediately, except Hanna Ratajczakówna, who was stopped by Prussia—in enough time for Wagner to mouth _my office _to her, and for her to nod in acknowledgement of the order. Prussia whispered something to her quickly before she, too, vanished. Germany frowned at the exchange, but offered no comment as his brother returned to his side.

"And now you," Bergmann said, turning to Feliks, who fully intended to face him directly—

But the next thing he knew, he was lying in bed, still handcuffed. It took him a moment to realize that it wasn't _his _bed—he had no idea whose it was, but Prussia was leaning against the wall by the door, smoking. It was late in the afternoon, judging by the light; when Beilschmidt saw that he was awake, he rolled his eyes.

"Great first impression, fainting like a little girl."

Feliks nearly groaned aloud. Of _course _that's what had happened. "You're lucky I'm handcuffed," he said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded weak.

Beilschmidt scoffed. "Or what? You'd flip me off?"

Feliks glared up at the ceiling, sulking.

Solemnly, Beilschmidt asked, "What'd Bergmann do to the laundry woman? I couldn't bring myself to ask—"

Feliks took a deep breath. "He had her shot," he muttered, glaring at Beilschmidt when he sighed in relief.

Beilschmidt frowned at him. "I was afraid he'd chosen something…. _Slower_. He seems to get on well with Zimmer."

"Zimmer's the one who saved—"

"Yeah." Beilschmidt made a face. "And I'm gonna pretend not to know why he did that."

Feliks decided not to ask what he meant by either statement about the doctor. "Wagner tried to save the laundry woman," he murmured, returning his attention to the ceiling.

"He's the one who hired her in the first place."

"Hm. That one guy looked familiar. The big one who only barely spoke German."

"Olga Nowakowa recommended him, apparently."

Feliks did groan at that. "Oh, my head hurts too much to deal with _her _today."

Beilschmidt laughed. "She's a headache all her own."

"She tried seducing me once," he blurted out before he realized that was probably a bad idea.

Beilschmidt must have inhaled too sharply on his cigarette because he started coughing violently enough for his eyes to water. "Oh, I'd _pay _to see that," he gasped once he could talk again.

"I doubt it would be horribly entertaining, just uncomfortable for everyone involved."

Beilschmidt frowned. "D'you think she figured out that you—"

"I've no idea." _I know the truth about Toris Laurinaitis_ the letter had said. "She knows I don't like her, though, so that's plenty of excuse."

Beilschmidt offered no response; Feliks glanced over at him, but his attention was focused on his cigarette, which was almost burnt out. They both jumped slightly when the door opened and Hanna Ratajczakówna timidly entered the room—Wagner right behind her.

"General Bergmann misses your company," Wagner said to Beilschmidt, leaning against the doorway. Hanna Ratajczakówna had found a hiding place on the far side of Beilschmidt.

"And yours, I'm sure," was the dry reply. It was a bit funny to see Beilschmidt and Wagner standing almost side by side—Wagner was quite a bit taller than Beilschmidt, if not quite as tall as his brother, and Beilschmidt had always been a bit sensitive about his height.

Wagner shrugged and glanced over at Feliks. "Glad to see you're awake," he said with a smirk. Feliks couldn't resist glaring at him, but he didn't seem to care. "Oh, don't worry, you don't have to go anywhere at the moment."

"Quite the opposite, is it?"

Wagner shrugged again, and Beilschmidt rolled his eyes. "Like you'd want to go, anyway," the latter said in their language.

Feliks shot him a dark look, too. "Can you at least take these off, then?" he asked in German, holding his hands up.

Wagner and Beilschmidt glanced at each other.

"Your friend wouldn't like it very much," Beilschmidt muttered, and that was motivation enough for Wagner to cross the room and unlock the handcuffs before he removed them and slid them into his pocket. "Don't do anything stupid," he said. "Hanna's going to look after you."

_Wait, does he use her as informant, then? Or does he just want both of us out of the way? _Before he could ask, both Wagner and Beilschmidt had left the room, shutting the door behind them. He sighed, rubbing his wrists. They were probably going to bruise, he realized, grimacing.

"Are you alright?" Hanna Ratajczakówna asked softly.

Feliks nodded and started to sit up—but then his head swam and he was on his back again without quite registering that he'd fallen. Hanna Ratajczakówna had inched a bit closer to him.

"Are you _sure_-?"

"Yeah," he said, "yeah, just…just a bit lightheaded, that's all." _Just a _lot _lightheaded_ said the nagging voice in the back of his head, the one that usually sounded like Toris. He tried to sit up again, slower this time, and Hanna Ratajczakówna rushed to his side to help him. This time he managed to stay upright, though he instantly regretted it, because now the nausea was back and it was completely overwhelming. He tried putting his head between his knees, but almost fell over when the floor started spinning; Hanna Ratajczakówna must have figured out what was going on, because she helped him stand and before he knew what had happened, she had helped him reach a toilet—which he immediately proceeded to vomit into, Hanna Ratajczakówna kneeling beside him and holding his hair back. When at last he was done, she helped him sit back against the wall, shakier and weaker than before, his sides sore and the taste of bile still in his mouth. He closed his eyes; she had turned the faucet on, then off, then she was shaking him.

"_Pan _Feliks," she whispered, holding a cup of warm water to his lips as she knelt next to him. He grimaced but let her help him drink it, coughing once he'd managed to swallow all of it. "Do you think you can walk?" she asked.

He shook his head, wincing. She stood, and he heard the faucet again, but this time when she returned, she placed a wet cloth on his forehead. He opened his eyes enough to see her sit next to him, and to lean into her shoulder without making it awkward, before closing them again.

She held the cloth in place gently, and Feliks wondered if he had a fever or if it was just the heat. He didn't _feel _hot, though, even so close to Hanna Ratajczakówna. _Fever, then, probably_.

"You're lucky you fainted earlier," she murmured. "I overheard Doctor Zimmer and General Bergmann this morning, what—what they were planning to do to you—"

Feliks frowned; he had other concerns. "Jósef," he muttered. "Jósef Kowalski. What happened to—"

"He died," she breathed. "Doctor Zimmer killed him."

"What's the doctor doing _killing _people?"

She didn't respond, and he wondered if she'd understood him. _Beilschmidt hates him_, he remembered, _he doesn't trust him_.

"He was found out, then?" Feliks asked, forcing himself to be louder and clearer.

"No," she answered. "No, he—he—Doctor Zimmer was angry because someone had been stealing medicine."

"Jósef wasn't stealing medicine, though, was he?"

"He said he was," she said, barely audible. Feliks could feel her hands shaking. "He said it was him and…."

_And he died_. Feliks sighed. "At least you're safe." _Relatively_.

He felt her tense. "Actually, I—there is something I wanted to talk to you about," she said slowly. "If—if you're feeling alright—"

He forced himself to sit up and face her at that. "I'm feeling better," he said, taking the rag off his forehead.

She bit her lip. "I—I want to help. Still."

It took him a moment to process what she meant. "_Oh_. Oh, I—"

Her face reddened. "I know it's dangerous," she said, quickly, quietly. "I _know_, but I—I can't bear to not to anything, I _can't_." She looked up at him, hazel eyes pleading for him to _understand_.

He did, but he also wasn't sure, and it must have shown on his face; she leaned forward so she could whisper even more quietly.

"No one's closer to General Wagner than I am," she breathed, "_no one_, not even—not even Olga Nowakowa."

Feliks frowned. Maybe it was because he wasn't in the best state of mind, but it actually didn't sound like a half-bad idea. More to test how willing she was than to discourage her, he said, "If you're caught—"

Hanna Ratajczakówna took a deep breath. "I know. I know what'll happen. But I want to _help_."

Feliks couldn't help smiling. "Well, it sounds like you'd be very helpful."

She grinned back at him. "Oh, _thank you_," she said. "Thank you, I won't let you down, I _promise_—I remember how to get to your house, I think, it was pretty straightforward—"

Shaking his head, he said, "No, that's leaving too much to chance. I'll—I'll figure out a way to contact you once I can think clearly."

She nodded eagerly. "Alright, then. Thank you—"

"Really, I ought to be thanking _you_," he said. "Now, if you don't mind helping me back to the bed, I'd like to take a nap."

It was completely dark in the room when Wagner woke Feliks; Hanna Ratajczakówna was nowhere to be found, but Feliks didn't dare ask where she was—though he did grumble a complaint when Wagner handcuffed him again before dragging him out of bed.

"Not my idea," the general said again as they made their way to the hallway just outside his office. _I was in his room, then. _He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"Does he really outrank you that much?"

"Technically, no," he grudgingly admitted. Feliks blinked rapidly as he adjusted to the brightness in the hall. "But he's been stationed somewhere other than a _vacation town_."

"And has better friends, I bet."

Wagner didn't answer for a while. "He thinks he's special because he comes from a poor family."

"And suddenly has an impressive rank and even more impressive friends, is that it?" Feliks was still a bit giddy.

Wagner's lips pressed together. "I've never asked how he got either."

"Did you ever have to?" He hadn't forgotten that they were on a first-name basis.

The general sighed. "We knew each other when we were younger, but we haven't had much to do with each other for years."

"Why are you being so talkative today?" Feliks asked, eyes narrowed.

Wagner stopped suddenly, forcing Feliks to stop, too, and pulling him a bit closer than he would have liked. "Listen, around this corner, there's a dining room. That's where we're going. There's going to be alcohol—I'm begging you, _don't get drunk_," he whispered.

Feliks frowned up at him. "I promise it takes a lot more for _me _to get drunk than you."

Wagner remained unconvinced. "_Listen to me_. Has Prussia told you what happened to Romania?"

"No, what happened to Romania?" _And why didn't Beilschmidt tell me?_

"_He doesn't know_. He lost some battle with Bielorus, and then he was arrested because of that, but no one will say what happened after that."

Feliks had thought he was done with nausea for the day, but, apparently, he was wrong.

"_Don't. Get. Drunk_," Wagner said again before dragging Feliks around the corner and through the door to the dining room.

Prussia had told him that the building had once been a hotel, but Feliks had remained skeptical until he saw the dining room. Only three tables were there, but there was easily room for more than four times as many—he guessed it functioned as a mess when there weren't important guests. Only the overhead light above the three tables in the center was lit, and the rest of the room was cast in shadow, but Feliks could still tell it was impressive—or that it might be, in the right circumstances.

Wagner steered him to the table where the Beilschmidts were sitting, and sat him down in the chair to the right of Prussia before sitting down himself on the other side.

"You didn't invite me to dinner, how rude," he muttered to Prussia in their language.

"Oh, hush, we didn't want you fainting in the food."

Feliks kicked the back of his leg, earning a glare, but Bergmann entered from the opposite side he and Wagner had come in on and everyone became serious before Beilschmidt could do more.

"It's good to see you awake, Łukasiewicz," Bergmann said. Feliks chose to ignore the chuckles from around the tables, though he couldn't help but notice that the Beilschmidts and Wagner alike were stone-faced. "I do hope you're feeling better," he said, sitting down across from them.

"Yes, I am," he said; he wasn't sure if he should have felt satisfied at the look of surprise on Bergmann's face or not. _He didn't think I knew German, I bet_. It passed quickly, at any rate. "I haven't been sleeping well lately."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, smiling, though his eyes remained cold. "I hope you're not too tired to discuss…let's call it business, for the sake of conversation."

Feliks frowned at him. "That would depend on the _business_."

"The kind best discussed over beer," Bergmann said warmly, cracking open a bottle and handing it to Feliks. Wagner shot him a look, but he ignored it. _As though one bottle of beer is enough to get me drunk_.

Twelve, it turned out, was enough to leave his cheeks flushed, and to make Bergmann much more likeable. Feliks had long since stopped paying attention to Wagner; Prussia was also steadily making his way through bottles Feliks hadn't bothered to count, though Germany had only had two. They hadn't yet gotten to Bergmann's _business_; had Feliks been sober, he'd have suspected that there was a plot to get him drunk before bringing up something he'd protest otherwise. If there was such a plot, it was working much faster than it usually would have; Feliks rarely drank beer, preferring spirits because it took rather large amounts of alcohol—especially for his size—to get him drunk, but tonight he was tired, somewhat delirious already, and drinking on an empty stomach. He still had no doubt that he could outdrink all of the humans at the table, and probably Prussia, too. Germany might be a bit harder to be beat, by virtue of his massive size, but Feliks might have stood a chance, anyway.

He wasn't thinking about any of that at the moment, however. He was too busy laughing off Bergmann's skepticism of ghosts—somehow, the conversation had found its way to Arlovskaya, but Feliks's head was fuzzy enough by then that he couldn't quite remember how.

"Well, it _is _silly," the general said; his face was also flushed.

"You've never pissed her off, then," Prussia said. He'd been laughing with Feliks, which was probably the real cause of Bergmann's indignation. "Piss her off just the right amount—she can't kill you, but she also can't just let you go—and you'll believe soon enough."

"You speak as though you know from experience!"

"I do! It was stupid, too, she had no reason to be pissed off—"

"Oh, everyone's got a reason to be pissed off at you," Feliks said.

Prussia ignored him. "It was completely unintentional, anyway."

"What'd you do?" Bergmann asked.

Prussia rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, I dared to not realize who she was, that's all. It was a bit stupid of me, she definitely looks like her siblings, but no, no I humiliated her in front of both the tsar _and _the Kaiser, there was no forgiveness for _that_. I couldn't sleep for _months_ after that."

Feliks was laughing. "Well, no one ever said you had the best manners, that's for sure."

"Neither does she! She swears even more than I do, first of all—"

"Aren't noble ladies s'posed to be better than that?" Bergmann asked.

"She spent a lot of time with Lithuania when they were kids," Prussia said as though Bergmann would know what he meant by that.

Feliks nodded solemnly in agreement. "He was a terrible child. Not that I knew him then, but he was," he said, hoping to clarify things for Bergmann. "Truly terrible. He used to keep _snakes _as pets, did you know that?"

Bergmann scoffed. "Snakes as _pets_? I don't believe it."

"He did," Prussia and Feliks said at the same time. "Back when he was pagan," Feliks added. "It took him _so _long to convert, _honestly_, I was beginning to think it was a lost cause."

"Ugh, don't even _tell _me about it," Prussia said. "It was _awful_. And you _knew _he was only doing it out of spite."

"Oh, don't I know it. At least he never became Orthodox like he was threatening to."

"He _was_? Braginsky used to complain that he'd never set foot in an Orthodox church."

"That was probably out of spite, too, then."

"Which part?"

"All of it, knowing him. But you know, _I _was the one who finally got him to do it—remember, there used to be a bet going around?"

"I still say _you _had nothing to do with it, it was all Hedwig—"

"Jadwiga."

"Semantics. Point is, I don't think you should've won."

"You're just a bitter old man, Beilschmidt."

"Oh, and you're not?"

Feliks shrugged and opened another bottle of beer. It was tricky with the handcuffs, but he'd finally gotten the hang of it. "At any rate, you shouldn't be complaining about it when you ended up leaving the Church."

"Oh, not this again."

"It's not _my _fault you're a heretic. Besides, _I've _never been excommunicated. _Twice_."

"Hey, the first time got taken back! And the second was after I left the Church, so I basically excommunicated _myself_."

"You're damn right you did!"

"_Ugh_. You're so _ridiculous_."

"I am _not_."

"You are _so_."

"Are you two twelve?" Wagner snapped. They both glared at him and he rolled his eyes but didn't comment further.

"At any rate," Bergmann said, "I'd like to discuss Johannes's offer with you. I think we've had enough beers for that."

"Oh?" Feliks said, turning to Wagner. "Tell me, then, Johannes, what's your offer?"

"You and I aren't on a first name basis, Łukasiewicz."

"Oh, why not?" Bergmann asked. "You seem to be on a first name basis with your _secretary_."

Wagner stiffened. "Better than you can say of your wives."

Bergmann scoffed. "Hardly."

"Three wives in as many years, wasn't it?" Wagner asked, leaning back in his chair, blue eyes narrow as he met the other general's incredulous gaze.

Bergmann didn't seem to have a response to that; he sputtered for a moment as Gil and Feliks exchanged a glance, then said, "We're getting off topic."

Wagner seemed content to let the subject drop, at least for the time being. "My offer," he said, looking at Feliks without moving from his position, "which Prussia should have told you about, and which, I suspect, given the looks on both of your faces, that he _didn't_, was for your freedom—_limited_ freedom, mind you—in exchange for your cooperation."

"What sort of cooperation?" Feliks asked, a little breathless. Part of him wanted to turn around and yell at Prussia, but the nagging voice in the back of his head had returned, and it was warning him that that would get _nasty_, and fast, and it was better to wait until they were alone. That, and he couldn't quite help his curiosity getting the better of him.

"I was going to leave that up to you," Wagner said; at the same time, Bergmann said, "I was thinking something to do with the military, actually."

Feliks turned his attention to the latter, who shrugged. "All the better to keep an eye on you, and make sure you don't give us false information or something like that."

"All the more likely for more dangerous forms of sabotage," Prussia muttered, but no one paid him any attention.

Feliks didn't know how to respond to the offer, or to the fact that there _was _an offer. "I think I'm too drunk to answer that," he admitted softly. "Let me…let me think about that while I'm sober." _After I've yelled at Beilschmidt_.

"That's probably a good idea," Wagner muttered before Bergmann could answer. "I think it's time you went home."

Feliks couldn't have agreed more.


	23. Consequences

**_Sorry about updates being so few and far between lately; as you may have noticed, the chapters are getting longer (which I expected for various reasons, but they _****are ****_growing a bit faster than I'd expected). Additionally, there've been a few changes to the future plot—nothing major, just enough that I had to regroup; I also went back and quick-edited some of the early chapters—this involved some condensing, so that's why the chapter number is…off, and I'm also going to apologize for any inconsistencies that are a result of this—plus I wrote a couple of one-shots in between some updates. As always reviews and comments and follows and kudos and faves are one of my main sources of motivation, so a huge thank you to people who've done any of those things, especially people who did so as guests, who I couldn't thank personally._**

**_Finally, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to hinotorihime, who, aside from just generally being an awesome person is also an amazing writer and you should all totally check her work out, if you haven't already._**

**_"_****_We hold on so tightly, because we're terrified of loss. We hold on till our hands bleed. And in that self-shattering persistence, we fail to see the answer: just let go." –Yasmin Mogahed _**

**_Moscow_**

**_June 1942_**

Ivan had been in something of a _mood_ all day, so Toris had hesitated before going to his room after he'd finished enough work for the day. As usual, the halls of his house were silent at this hour, all the more so because more and more people were leaving to fight, some more willingly than others. Toris stayed, though. He sighed to himself. Once, he'd have snuck around as quietly as he could when he visited Ivan late at night, but neither he nor Ivan cared about secrecy that much anymore. All of the nations in the house knew about them, and, anymore, it was _only _nations in the house.

He knocked on Ivan's door quietly, in case he'd gone to bed early, but it was opened almost immediately.

"Ah, Litva, it's good to see you," Ivan said, running his fingers through his already disheveled hair.

Toris reached up to the bags under his eyes, fingers hovering over the skin, until Ivan grabbed his hand and pulled it to his lips. "You should sleep," he murmured, letting Ivan pull him inside.

"Mm. I don't feel tired."

"You _look _exhausted."

Ivan frowned at him. "I'm _fine_."

"I'm only _worried _about you, Ivan."

He sighed, letting Toris go so he could shut the door. He lingered there for a moment before turning back to Toris and embracing him in a great bear hug. Toris leaned into him, holding him close.

"I miss you," Ivan murmured. "Whenever I'm gone, I miss you so much…."

"I miss you, too," Toris whispered. Ivan tangled one hand in his hair, briefly, before pulling away enough to cup Toris's face in his hands. Toris's hands slid down to his waist and Ivan leaned down and kissed him; Toris couldn't help wrinkling his nose and pulling away from the stale taste of vodka on Ivan's breath. "You've been drinking," he muttered.

Ivan frowned. "Several hours ago. You've seen me drunk, Toris, you know I'm sober now."

There wasn't much denying that, and Toris let him kiss him again, let him gently shove his tongue into his mouth, let his hands wander over his body….

He leaned deeper into the kiss, fingers starting to dig into Ivan's back. Ivan chuckled breathlessly as he pulled away just far enough to be able to catch his breath. "Ah, Litva…."

Toris pulled him into another kiss, but it didn't last long; Ivan pulled away again.

"Let's—let's go to my room," he murmured, and Toris nodded; before he knew it, he and Ivan were in Ivan's bed, Toris on his back and Ivan straddling his waist as he kissed his neck in the sweet spot just under his jaw. He was being a bit rougher about it than usual, but Toris still tangled his fingers in his hair. It may have been rough, but that didn't mean it didn't feel good, and he couldn't help arching his back when Ivan scraped his teeth across his skin before parting from his neck briefly in order to kiss his lips with the same kind of passion. He didn't stay there long, though; he quickly returned to Toris's neck, rougher still than he had been.

Now it was starting to hurt a bit, and Toris said so; Ivan muttered an apology, very lightly kissing the same spot once before returning his attention to Toris's mouth. His hand slid up Toris's shirt, fingertips brushing over his skin, before wandering down to brush against his inner thigh. It was just the two of them, they were all that mattered. Ivan broke away from his kisses so he could whisper things in Toris's ear that, under other circumstances, would have made him blush; as it was, he turned his head and pulled Ivan back into the kisses, adjusting himself so he could reach up and start unbuttoning Ivan's shirt.

"Ah, Litva," he sighed, and Toris froze. Ivan paused, too, frowning at him, apparently confused, until he rolled his eyes and said, "Not _this _argument again."

Toris scowled at him. "You could at least not call me that in bed."

Ivan sighed, rolling onto his side next to Toris. "You don't have to turn it into an argument every time, Litva."

Toris felt his face grow hot, though now he was glaring at the ceiling; he refused to turn to look at Ivan. "And how many more times do we have to have the argument before you understand, _Rusija_?"

It was Ivan's turn to scowl; he grabbed Toris's chin and turned his head enough that he was forced to meet his gaze. "Listen, _malen'kiy moy_, not everything needs to be an argument. You don't let me call you anything else, and you only argue about it at inconvenient times, anyway. Stop making things difficult for the sake of making things difficult."

Toris shoved his hand away. "You only _call _me it at inconvenient times, _Van'ka. _We've been through this a thousand times, we always decide to not bother with diminutives because we'll only ever end up insulting each other."

"Just as we're doing now, of course."

"_You _started it."

"My goodness, are you a _child_ to use that argument?" Ivan asked in Russian, rolling his eyes again. "Hearing that from my sisters is one thing, but from _you_?"

"I don't hear you denying it," he retorted, stubbornly speaking in the countries' language. That was also childish, but, well, so was Ivan, so Toris didn't really care.

"I didn't start anything. I called you 'Litva,' which I've done hundreds of times—which _is _your name—what are you doing?"

Toris had sat up and started to move to the other side of the bed so he could leave; he really didn't want to get into _that _argument at the moment, and he told Ivan as much—only to have Ivan grab his wrist.

"No," he said simply. "We don't have to have the argument, but you don't get to leave."

Toris tried to yank free, thinking, briefly, that he was victorious when Ivan let him go—but it was only so that he could grab onto his arm just above his elbow and pull him onto his back.

"_No_," he said again, pulling Toris toward him. He needed both hands to do so, and eventually wrapped his arm around Toris's chest to give himself enough leverage to pull him into his lap. Toris wasn't sure if it was anger or humiliation that left his face growing ever hotter, but he was determined not to let Ivan win, and kept struggling, even as Ivan said, "Stop that," and tried restraining his arms.

"Let me _go_," he snapped, but Ivan's arms only grew tighter.

"No," he whispered, breath hot against Toris's neck. "No, you're staying _here_."

"Only if you let me go." Toris had half a mind to make a run for the door in the event that Ivan _did _let him go, but perhaps Ivan suspected that, because he squeezed tighter still.

"I don't think so," he said, moving to kiss the same spot on Toris's neck he'd hurt earlier. Toris could only glare at the wall in front of him; it wasn't _fair _that Ivan was so much bigger and stronger than he was, but maybe cooperating would give him the opportunity he needed. Ivan's kisses, like before, quickly became rough, and Toris couldn't help a quiet gasp of pain when he felt teeth on the bruise.

"That _hurts_," he grumbled.

"Mm," was the response, though, thankfully, Ivan stopped.

Toris's relief was short-lived, however, because Ivan almost immediately pulled him down and pinned him on his back. Toris glared up at him as he pinned his wrists above his head with one hand. "What's the point of this?" he demanded. "To remind me of my _place_?"

"Partly," Ivan admitted.

"This isn't funny."

"I'm not trying to be. Oh—it just occurred to me…. What happened to those letters Natalya gave you?"

"I burned them once I'd read them, they weren't important."

"Then why'd you burn them?"

"Well, I figured anything written in German—well, really anything in any language that uses the Latin alphabet—would be seen as some kind of rebellion—" Ivan squeezed his wrists and he gasped again. "_Stop that_."

"What was in them, Litva?"

"They were personal letters." That had had little bits of news about Feliks scattered throughout; nothing substantial, certainly outdated, but clearly more than Ivan wanted him to know.

Ivan frowned but seemed to believe him. "Now," he said, much more lightheartedly, "what should I do with you now that I've got you like this?"

"Let me go." A pause, to swallow his pride. "Please."

"Mm…. No."

"Ivan, I don't want—" Ivan didn't seem to care, because he leaned over and kissed him, jamming his tongue into his mouth, cutting him off. Suddenly, his weight seemed crushing, and Toris tried struggling again, only it was more futile now. "Stop," he gasped once Ivan pulled away to catch his breath. "_Stop_." Once or twice, Toris had been in this situation before—but then, Ivan had been drunk. He wasn't drunk then, he was completely sober, and Toris didn't know if he'd be able to convince him to stop. It had been years since he'd felt genuinely afraid of Ivan, and he couldn't figure out why Ivan was doing this.

Ivan frowned down at him, but he didn't look angry. "But I want you, Litva," he murmured.

"No. Not tonight." He couldn't help his voice from shaking slightly, but Ivan did, finally, let him go; he immediately stood, crossed the room to the door, and headed off to bed.

**_Warsaw_**

Feliks couldn't remember the last time his head had hurt _this _badly; wherever he was was too bright, and he hadn't even opened his eyes yet. He rolled over onto his stomach, burying his head in the pillow—_his_ pillow. Well, that was some relief.

"Good, you're awake," Wagner said.

The relief vanished instantly. "Go away," he grumbled, not sure if he was audible through the pillow, and even less sure if he cared.

"I was hoping to talk to you."

"Does it have to be _now_?"

"Not immediately, no, but sometime within the next hour or so would be best."

Feliks groaned, turning his head so he could glare at the general, who was sitting in a chair next to his bed. "Is it a matter of life and death?"

"In a manner of speaking. You should probably eat first."

Feliks returned to burying his head in his pillow briefly. "What're you doing in my house?"

"Truthfully, avoiding Bergmann."

Somehow, Feliks couldn't begrudge him that. "This doesn't have anything to do with your offer, does it?"

Wagner started. "You remember—"

"I wasn't _that _drunk," he snapped.

Wagner scowled at him. "It does."

Feliks sighed. "Fine, fine, let me change and then we can talk."

With a shrug, Wagner stood and left his room; Feliks groaned again, covering his eyes with his arm. One headache after the next, that was his life now. He forced himself to slide out of bed and make it—if he didn't do that, he knew it would only be too tempting to return to it.

The face that greeted him in the bathroom mirror was borderline frightening. He frowned at his reflection, stretching at his skin. When had the bags under his eyes gotten _that _bad? When had his skin become so pale and stretched? He splashed some cold water on his face, rubbing it dry with his sleeve, before grabbing his hairbrush and yanking it through his hair. He winced at every rat's nest he encountered, but, finally, was able to say it was _presentable_, if not ideal. He ran his fingers through it, frowning; it was dry—it looked almost frizzy, between his rough brushing and the humidity that had already started to cling to him—and there were more than a few split ends. It was long, too, he realized, twirling a strand absentmindedly, almost to his shoulders.

Feliks sighed. There wasn't much use in putting off the conversation with Wagner. At any rate, it would be best to talk to him while he was in a good mood.

Wagner was sitting calmly at his kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee; he stood when he saw Feliks and poured him a cup, setting it on the table when he saw Feliks heading straight for the counter. Feliks was determined not to speak until he'd found food; his stomach and head both hurt too much for conversation.

He had bread, of course, and he cut off a slice as soon as he saw it on the counter next to the refrigerator. It wasn't stale yet, but it was getting there; he made a note to himself to find a use for it before it became rock hard. He knew he had some cheese in the fridge; that, too, was harder than it should have been, but he cut off a slice and put it on the bread, leaving it on the counter next to the bread in case he wanted more later. He grabbed the coffee before returning to the counter and leaning against it.

It was quarter to ten, according to the clock on the opposite wall; he watched it as he ate the first slice of bread so he could continue to ignore Wagner, who had offered no comment up to this point.

"Poland, if I may," he said when Feliks turned to cut another slice of bread. He'd thought he'd known how hungry he was, but he hadn't _really _known until he'd started to eat.

He waved his hand in a way that was both dismissive and indicative that Wagner was allowed to continue.

"I don't think you should accept the offer."

"It's your idea, isn't it?" he asked, focused on slicing the cheese.

"Yes, but Bergmann's insistence has made me nervous."

"And Prussia's warnings, I'm sure."

"He's been warning me about you for three years now."

"Not quite that long," Feliks muttered, turning back to Wagner as he took a drink of coffee. It was watery and too bitter, but it was welcome regardless.

Wagner shrugged. "At any rate. His suspicions have proved unfounded—"

"In his defense, they aren't baseless."

Wagner shrugged again. "You've been cooperative so far. I don't pretend to know why, and I don't care; I do know you've been helping Prussia in his crusade against the Partisans."

Feliks frowned. "You're stupid to trust Olga Nowakowa," he said flatly.

"Who said I did?"

Feliks's eyes narrowed. "If you're trying to play her game, you'll lose," he said after a moment of silence.

"Like you did?"

Feliks took a deep breath. "Why's Bergmann make you suspicious?"

"Aside from the obvious? I think he's hoping you'll do something stupid."

"To give him an excuse to send me wherever Romania is?"

Wagner frowned. "Partly. But it would also look bad for Prussia and I. It was my idea, as you said, after all."

"Ah, so we can all be sent off into the æther together. It'll be a party, 'specially if Romania's there. I've always enjoyed his sense of humor, but don't tell Hungary I said that."

"Please take this seriously."

"I am. Bergmann suggested I do something to help the military didn't he? Why the hell would I want to do that? What sort of _freedom_ does that offer me?"

Wagner sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't know," he admitted. "Bergmann's planning on talking to you about the details as soon as possible."

"And how's it look if I refuse, hm?" Feliks demanded, eyebrows raised. "I'm no longer cooperative, then, am I? So, I'd get in trouble for that. But if I do go along—actually go along with it, no sabotage or anything—then I'm—well, I'll just say I'm doing something I don't want to. If I _do _sabotage whatever I end up doing, as Bergmann hopes, then it won't just be the three of us in trouble. All those people who work for you—what happens without you and Beilschmidt there? Even when you _were _there, Bergmann killed your laundry woman."

Wagner took a deep breath. "I didn't say anything about this would be easy."

"The best option, logically, would be to actually cooperate." Even the thought of that left a bitterer taste in his mouth than any coffee could have. "It's the only choice that doesn't carry the risk of other people being hurt."

"_Will _you cooperate?" Wagner asked drily.

Feliks frowned at him.

"Just because you say it's the most logical option—and I don't disagree with you—doesn't mean you'll carry through."

"I don't know," he admitted. "I think I'm going to wait and hear his terms. Well—will he honor them?"

"I think so, yes. Bergmann's a lot of things, but 'dishonest' isn't one of them—or, at least, it _wasn't_."

"I'll hear his terms, first, then decide."

Wagner sighed again, then nodded. "The decision is yours, after all—just, please, don't forget about the consequences."

"I won't," Feliks promised, though he wasn't sure if he meant it or not.

**_Moscow_**

Ivan paced back and forth in his office, alone, listening to the quite drizzle of rain outside without really hearing it. All he wanted was a somewhat normal relationship with Toris—_At least a _stable _one_—but Toris made things so _complicated_.

Well, in fairness, not even Ivan could warp what had happened the previous night in such a way that left only Toris to blame; he might have started the argument, whatever he said to the contrary, but it had been Ivan who had pushed him away. He sighed and ran his fingers through his already messy hair, frowning at the window. Everything was gray and wet and miserable.

He wanted to fix things with Toris before he left again in two days, but he wasn't sure if Toris would want to listen to him. Ivan also hated apologizing on principle, even when he was genuinely sorry, but….

He _had _actually hurt him, he could bring himself to apologize for _that_, at least, right? He could at least try, and then rest a bit easier knowing that he'd done what he could to make things better, and that the rest was up to Toris and therefore out of his hands.

Ivan took a deep breath before knocking on the door to Toris's office. He had a feeling Toris wouldn't be over happy to see him; if the unreadable look on his face when he opened the door was anything to go by, Ivan was right, but he pushed past him into the office, anyway.

Toris walked over to his desk, though he stayed on the same side of it as Ivan, even if his back was turned to him. "What?" he asked, his voice rougher than usual.

"I…. I wanted to apologize for last night." _That wasn't so bad_. "I don't know what came over me, but I—I shouldn't have hurt you, and I'm sorry."

Toris sighed softly but still didn't turn around. "No, you shouldn't have. Why are you apologizing so soon? It's not like you."

Ivan scowled at him before regaining his composure. No, he was here to apologize, not start another argument. Still, it was probably best to be honest in this situation. "I'm leaving again in two days; I don't want to go without trying to make things up to you."

Toris didn't seem to have a response to that; Ivan hesitated, but crossed the room to him and hugged him from behind. "I don't want to hurt you, Toris," he whispered when he felt him tense. Toris didn't respond, though he did relax, and Ivan closed his eyes and nuzzled his neck affectionately. They stayed like that for several minutes, before Ivan asked, "Are you angry with me, Toris?"

"You _scared _me last night, Ivan," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry," Ivan said again, holding him tighter—but trying to reign in his strength as well.

Toris sighed again. "I don't want to fight with you, Ivan, I—well, alright, _sometimes _I do—" Ivan smiled at that. "—but it—it's so _exhausting _to argue all the time."

Ivan nodded in agreement. "Especially when we go so long without seeing each other."

"Mm," Toris murmured, leaning back a bit into Ivan, and the two lapsed back into silence. Ivan could have stood like that forever, just him and Toris and the rain outside; it was hot and muggy and incredibly stuffy in Toris's office, but Ivan didn't want to ever let him go.

"Ivan?" he asked eventually.

"Yes?"

"I forgive you. But I won't sleep with you tonight or tomorrow night."

Ivan frowned. "That's fair," he admitted after a few moments. It was certainly better than nothing.

**_Warsaw_**

Gil couldn't remember what had happened the night before, but he knew, as soon as he woke up, that he regretted everything. He groaned, wishing he could fall back asleep, but no, his head was throbbing and his mouth and throat felt dry and swollen. It took all his willpower to get out of bed and walk to his bathroom; he wasn't nauseous, thankfully, but his body was finding other ways to punish him. He forced himself to drink one, two, three glasses of water; though it was cold, it was bitter, in the way that water is when you're sick, and he grimaced at the taste. It didn't seem to do much to help him feel better, and he scowled at his reflection in the little tarnished mirror above the sink, turning toward the open door when he heard heavy footsteps in his bedroom.

Ludwig appeared in the doorway. "Good, you're awake," he said, leaning against the doorframe.

Gil made a face, leaning against the sink, arms crossed. "Unfortunately. What…what time is it?"

"'Bout one in the afternoon."

"Well, shit." He turned back to the sink. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

"Your secretary and I figured you'd be hungover."

Gil frowned at the water he'd cupped in his hands. "Irena," he muttered. "Her name's Irena."

Lud hesitated. "You care about her."

"It's stupid to get attached to humans, Lud," Gil said, then splashed the water on his face.

Lud didn't respond, but grabbed the towel from the rack by the door and tossed it to his brother, who dried his face with it.

"I can get you something to eat, if you want," Lud said after a moment.

"Bless you, Lud. Coffee, too, if you can."

"Black?"

"Of course."

Ludwig left, and Gil sighed to himself. He wasn't sure how he felt about his brother talking to Irena. Clearly he didn't care that Gil hadn't—well, of course he didn't, Gil had _known_ he wouldn't, but he felt relieved by the fact anyway. He shook his head, not really in the mood to deal with that. No, he decided, he ought to talk to Irena before Lud came back with…lunch.

She was sitting at his desk—_Is it my desk? She uses it more_—at least pretending to work on something.

"Still hungover, then?" she asked without looking up, curly hair sliding over her shoulder and into her face as she spoke. She pushed it back again reflexively. "Not that I can blame you for drinking last night, considering your company."

"Irena—"

"I was referring to _Pan _Łukasiewicz, of course," she said, looking up at him, dark eyes wide with feigned innocence.

"Mhm. You don't even know him." _Probably for the best, Lord only knows what mess the two of them would get into if they did know each other. _

"Well, I figured he _must _be awful, otherwise they wouldn't have kept in handcuffs all day."

Gil couldn't help grinning a bit at her blatant lies.

"How'd I do?" Irena asked, dropping the innocent look easily.

"You're a bit too condescending, it's probably best if you just keep your mouth shut in the first place," he answered, moving to sit on the desk.

She sighed. "I was afraid of that," she muttered.

"Hm." He frowned. "Irena, I—I really am sorry for hurting you yesterday."

She seemed amused by that. "I know you are."

"What's _that _look for?"

"How much do you remember from last night?"

"Not much after I started drinking," he confessed. "Why? I didn't—"

She laughed. "No, but once your brother dragged you up here, you wouldn't _stop _apologizing to me, even after we both told you to go to bed."

"Oh."

She frowned, suddenly serious, and reached out to place her hand on his. "I know you didn't mean to," she murmured, looking at the desk. "And I—I _really _shouldn't've said anything yesterday. I won't do that again, I promise," she said, looking up at him.

He smiled gently. "Good," he said simply. Then, "How _was _my brother?"

"Oh, he's been very kind, actually. I—well," she said, blushing a bit, "I wasn't sure if he would be, but he really was. He probably wouldn't say as much, but I think he's been up here all day avoiding General Bergmann. Wagner's been gone ever since he took _Pan _Łukasiewicz home last night, apparently."

Gil frowned. "You've been here, too, right?"

She nodded. "I haven't seen Hanna—"

"I'm not very worried about her, even Zimmer knows how Wagner'd react if—" Irena made a face and he sighed. "I'm sorry about that, too, you know."

"I know," she muttered.

"I'm not mad at you for defending her, either."

"I know."

Gil grabbed her hand and squeezed it gently; she frowned up at him, surprised, as he rubbed his thumb in circles on the back of her hand. _Dammit, I am attached to her, aren't I? _

"I don't want you to get hurt," he said quietly. "Or Hanna, for that matter, but it—it's easier to protect you."

She squeezed his hand in return. "I know that, too," she whispered.

They both started and let go of each other's hand when they heard the door open; Ludwig had returned—without lunch, Gil saw with a sinking feeling. He did have coffee, though, and Gil accepted that gladly, though he burnt his tongue on the first drink.

"Po—Łukasiewicz and _Herr General _Wagner are back," he said. "They've managed to convince Bergmann to wait for you, for now—"

Gil nodded. "Lemme finish my coffee, first, then I'll go." Drinking a cup of scalding hot coffee in less than a minute was probably not going to do wonders for his sore throat, but Gil didn't really care. Lud was frowning at him, but Irena seemed to be trying not to laugh; he noticed, suddenly, for the first time, that she was left-handed. _How on earth did _I _not notice that?_

He slid off the desk, and Lud headed toward the door. "Stay out of trouble," he told Irena.

"I'll do my best," she muttered.

Gil rolled his eyes but followed his brother to the door.

Bergmann and the others were waiting in the dining hall they'd been in last night; no one looked particularly happy to be there. _Oh, great_.

"How kind of you to join us, _Herren_," Bergman said; Gil chose to ignore the condescension dripping from his words.

"A pleasure to be here," he said, sitting next to Łukasiewicz, whose face was unreadable. That usually meant trouble, in Gil's experience, but Bergmann had already started talking again.

"So, Łukasiewicz, let's cut straight to business: have you considered my offer?"

_Wagner's offer_, Gil thought, noticing the general's frown, but no one bothered correcting Bergmann.

"You haven't given me much to think about," Łukasiewicz said; Bergmann's fake smile had frozen in place. "I'm not agreeing to anything until I know the terms of the agreement."

"Of course," Bergmann said, in a way that left Gil doubting how much he meant to adhere to whatever terms he was about to offer. "Well, it's quite simple. For every month you serve, you'll have a month freed from house arrest."

Łukasiewicz leaned back in his chair, thinking. "And when the war is over?" he asked drily. "Or do you plan on it lasting forever?"

"When the war is over, we'll talk," Bergmann answered quickly. "Do you agree?"

That was the moment Gil realized that it was a trap—not from anything Bergmann was doing, but by the telltale flash in Łukasiewicz's bright green eyes—the flash that said he intended to outsmart Bergmann. Gil hoped he knew what he was doing.

"Depends," Poland said, "what will I be doing? Where will I be?"

"Well, your location is going to depend on a few things, so don't worry about it. As for what you'll be doing—tell me, can you fly a plane?"

Łukasiewicz grinned. "I promise you, _Herr General_, I am an _excellent _pilot."

**_Translations_**

Rusija – the Lithuanian name for Russia

Malen'kiy moy (маленький мой) – "my little one."

Herren – "gentlemen"; plural of _Herr_.


	24. The Deluge

_**"****Time has always been the greatest ally to Truth, because Time eventually relieves and reveals all." –Suzy Kassem**_

_**Moscow**_

_**July 1942**_

Ivan's house was all but silent these days, and it made Toris uneasy. He was alone with Eduard and Raivis—occasionally, someone would return for a day or two, but that was becoming increasingly rare.

Toris was standing in the living room, leaning against the edge of the window, staring into the setting sun without seeing it. He could follow it, leaving now would not be hard—though avoiding the authorities would be. A century ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to take that risk. Now, he wasn't sure it was worth it. The odds of being caught by either the Russians or the Germans before he made it home—no, that wouldn't end well, not if he was alone, and there was _retaliation _to think of as well.

He sighed; the room darkened. He wanted to go _home_, but, if he was being honest, he didn't really know where that was. With his people, certainly, but aside from that…he was utterly lost. He sighed again, and drew the curtains closed against the coming night.

"Your hands are dry," Ivan murmured, kissing the back of the right one. He was sitting cross-legged in bed, Toris, in his lap, leaning back into him. Toris was sure Ivan's legs had fallen asleep by now, but he didn't seem to want to move any more than Toris did, despite the muggy heat.

"They usually are," he replied softly.

"True." He moved to nuzzle the side of Toris's neck, still holding his hand; Toris tilted his head to accommodate him.

"Does Natasha's use of magic bother you?" he asked apropos of nothing.

Toris frowned. "No, why?" Nata's magic was something he'd more or less always been around—it was something he'd never given a second thought to, though Feliks had always disapproved.

"I'm worried that she's in too deep with…whatever it is she's been doing lately."

"She can take care of herself, Ivan."

"Hm. There's something about that Aleksandrov that bothers me. I don't think he's really a ghost."

"What else would he be?"

"No idea. But he bothers me."

Toris's frown deepened. "I haven't spent much time with him, so I couldn't say." He paused. "I trust Nata's judgement."

Ivan scoffed. "She's made mistakes before."

"She's spending a lot of time with him, isn't she?"

"That's why I'm worried."

Toris sighed; Ivan rubbed his thumb in circles on the back of his hand; a breeze so light it seemed to struggle in the thick July night stirred the curtains.

"Toris?"

"Yes?"

"D'you think we might lose?" Ivan's voice, quiet as it was, was as heavy as the air.

Toris frowned. If he was being honest, he hadn't given much thought to who might win or lose the war—_he_ lost either way, after all, and there was no end in sight, anyway.

"I don't know," he said simply.

"I'm afraid of what will happen if we do," Ivan whispered, his voice cracking, burying his face in Toris's shoulder.

Startled by the confession, Toris struggled to come up with a response. He settled for moving off Ivan, gently prying his hand away from him, and sitting next to him instead and trying to hug him—though the angle and Ivan's size made that a bit difficult until Ivan also moved so that his head rested on Toris's thigh. Violet eyes stared blankly at the wall ahead of them as Toris wordlessly ran his fingers through his soft hair, over and over and over again.

"What will I do if we lose?" Ivan asked, almost to himself.

"The same thing you're doing now."

Ivan rolled onto his back so he was looking up at Toris. "And what's that?"

"Live. One day at a time."

Ivan laughed, but it sounded even more artificial than either of them had expected and he stopped quickly. "If I didn't know any better, Litva," he said, trying to sound lighthearted, "I'd say you know from experience."

"I do," Toris reminded him, frowning at him.

Ivan returned the frown, but reached up to brush his fingertips across his cheek. "You'll be there, won't you? With me? However it ends?"

Toris paused. "Of course," he murmured, not sure how much he meant it—it seemed some days like he was only floating along, doing what Ivan said because he didn't know what else to do.

His answer seemed to satisfy Ivan, though, and he closed his eyes; he looked as peaceful as if Toris had just solved all his problems at once. "Thank you, Toris. Truly. It means the world to me."

"I know."

_**Warsaw**_

_**July 1942**_

On the one hand, Feliks was no longer confined to his house.

On the other, he was spending a great deal of time with Wagner and Beilschmidt, which he could have done without.

He was also anxious to fly; he was incredibly grateful he'd lived to see the invention of the airplane, and even more so that he'd ever been able to fly one. If he could have made it his main mode of transportation, he would have without a second thought. Wagner had been surprised by (if also suspicious of) his enthusiasm at first, but even Beilschmidt had admitted Feliks was a good pilot— "Though," he'd added, "there's no force in Heaven or on earth that would compel me to get in a plane with him." Feliks had grinned wider at that, but, perhaps wisely, Wagner had decided not to ask what he meant by that.

Markowicz had been less than happy about the idea.

"Of course I plan on sabotaging them," Feliks had said, waving away his complaints. "I just need a plane to do it."

First, though, he needed Wagner and Beilschmidt to trust him with a plane, and that meant he couldn't risk talking to Markowicz at all, which might have been a bigger source of complaint for him—but Feliks didn't care. He was going to be able to _do _something finally, dammit—and he was determined to fly.

When he wasn't waiting around in someone's office, he lurked around the building. So far, no one had bothered him about it—though he'd been warned not only by Wagner and Beilschmidt, but also both of their secretaries, to avoid Doctor Zimmer multiple times. No reason had ever been given, aside from Hanna's account of Jósef Kowalski's death, but Feliks did feel wary enough of four different people telling him to stay away—that and the rare brief encounters he _did _have with the man invariably left the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

No, he wasn't interesting in creepy supposed-doctors—but there was a certain familiarity to the handyman he couldn't quite shake. How was he connected to Olga Nowakowa? Why did he seem to be avoiding him? Why did he seem to spend more time with Irena Kowalczykówna than anyone else? Headache after headache after headache.

At least Hanna Ratajczakówna was nice, and without any complicated connections, other than Feliks himself. Not that he spent a great deal of time alone with her, but she seemed to be genuinely kind, and he appreciated that—and her company, when they had the chance to be alone. He had asked her once about the handyman, but the only thing she could tell him was that he might be meeting with Irena Kowalczykówna more than either of them let on.

"She's awfully secretive," Hanna had said. "It might not mean anything at all."

So, Irena Kowalczykówna was another mystery. Hanna claimed to be her good friend, but seemed not to know very much about her—though Feliks was far less concerned with the secrets of a sixteen-year-old girl surrounded by men who would kill her without hesitation than he was with the secrets of those men. So Beilschmidt's secretary was secretive. Anyone would be in her situation—what secrets could she possibly have that were _actually _important? Anything Beilschmidt had told her, he already knew; anything suspect the handyman had told her was probably a lie. No, she wasn't important.

Olga Nowakowa, on the other hand, was. She was another frequenter of the building, not that Feliks saw her often. She spent most of her time alone with Wagner, and he had no desire to join them.

She was lurking in the front lobby at the same time Feliks was one day—he was in the middle of a conversation about nothing in particular with Hanna and Irena Kowalczykówna while waiting to talk to Wagner—but didn't seem to notice him at all.

Hanna caught him looking at her. "Do you know her?" she asked quietly.

Irena Kowalczykówna frowned at Nowakowa as well, though she didn't say anything and Feliks couldn't read her face.

"You could say that," he muttered; Irena Kowalczykówna glanced at him, briefly, before frowning at Hanna. There was something in her dark eyes—a certain gentleness—that Feliks couldn't help but to notice whenever she focused her attention on Hanna, which was often.

The front door opened suddenly, flung open in part by the wind—a glance outside revealed ominously dark clouds, and the gust of wind brought with it the smell of rain—and everyone turned to stare at the newcomers. The man dropped the suitcase he'd been carrying in order to shut the door, but the woman strolled confidently to the center of the room, taking her black leather gloves off in a way that clearly said she meant business.

Feliks had spent centuries around nobility; he knew what money looked like, even when its owners chose not to flaunt it. One look at her, and, despite her plain clothes, he knew she had a lot of it. He also knew she was used to people listening to her, and everyone in the room straightened their posture as they simultaneously reached the same conclusion.

Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a simple bun; her obviously-meant-for-traveling outfit was navy blue; her heels were simple and short—perhaps making up for her somewhat-taller-than-average height—and her nails unpainted. She didn't seem to be wearing any make-up at all, but, with her steely eyes, she attracted all the attention in the room to her.

Nowakowa's eyes spelled _murder _with such intensity Feliks felt a twinge of concern for the strange woman, but no one else seemed to notice.

"Where is General Wagner?" she asked in German, voice clear and ringing with authority.

A low-ranking officer stepped forward. "He's busy in his office, _gnä__' Frau_, but if you tell me your name, I can tell him— "

"I'm his wife," she said simply.

The officer's eyes widened, and he saluted her quickly before turning to tell Wagner about his visitor.

It was taking a great deal of self-control for Feliks not to laugh. It was obvious that everyone in the room was looking at Nowakowa while trying to hide it; Nowakowa had regained total control of her expression, managing to look almost _pleasant_ for once. Frau Wagner didn't seem to notice anyone else in the room, but frowned intently at the stairs the officer had darted up a few moments ago. It didn't take him long to return, Bergmann close behind.

Feliks frowned, turning to Hanna. Bergmann and Germany had both left weeks ago with no hint of either returning anytime soon. "When'd _he_ get here?" he muttered. She shrugged; he glanced at Irena Kowalczykówna, but she was frowning intently at Nowakowa and didn't seem to have heard him, or to have seen Bergmann.

Frau Wagner had visibly stiffened at the sight of the general, though she greeted him cordially enough, and let him kiss her hand.

"A pleasure, as always, to see you, Elena," he said, smiling, "though also quite the surprise."

"I might say the same of you, Matthias. Are you the reason my husband is busy at the moment?"

"In part, I confess, though your arrival is certainly…unexpected."

She frowned at his diversion. "I hadn't made it known that I was coming, and I wouldn't have known where to contact you, in any case." _I wouldn't have, anyway_, her forced smile added silently.

"Well, it is a dangerous time for a woman such as yourself to be travelling alone…."

"I wasn't alone," she replied curtly; "I had Joachim with me."

The man who had been carrying her suitcase straightened up at that, though Bergmann scarcely noticed him.

Before the general could respond, Beilschmidt and Wagner appeared on the stairs, and everyone's attention turned to them. A brief flicker of something crossed Elena Wagner's face when she saw her husband—a certain tenderness that vanished instantly. So, she hadn't traveled to Warsaw because she was angry with him, as Feliks would have guessed.

"Leni," Wagner said, shocked. Feliks guessed he hadn't believed that she was really there until he saw her.

Beilschmidt's face was unreadable, and, as Wagner quickly made his way to his wife, he made his way to Feliks.

"When'd _she_ get here?" he muttered in the countries' language.

"Just a few minutes ago. How long's Bergmann been here?"

"He got here this morning," Beilschmidt answered, making a face. "Wagner wasn't terribly happy about it."

"Nor were you, I'm guessing."

Beilschmidt shrugged. "What's Nowakowa still doing here?"

"I can't read her mind, you know."

The Wagners were heading upstairs, arm in arm, and Bergmann had turned his attention to Feliks and Beilschmidt.

"You two go wait in my office," Beilschmidt muttered in Polish, and Irena Kowalczykówna and Hanna quickly vanished. Bergmann frowned at them, but didn't say anything until he crossed the room to stand by the two countries.

"A pleasure to see you again, Łukasiewicz," he said, though he clearly didn't mean it.

"Likewise," Feliks said, forcing a smile. He _really _wanted to fly.

With the departure of the Wagners, the room had slowly started to empty; Nowakowa slipped off somewhere, without leaving the building, which Beilschmidt also noticed, though he only shrugged in response to Feliks's raised eyebrow. Joachim was left awkwardly by the front door, until Bergmann noticed him and gestured for him to come over. He obeyed, shoulders hunched, hands clasped behind his back, dark eyes focused on the floor.

"What's your name again?" Bergmann asked, a glint in his eye that Feliks did _not_ like.

"Jáchym—Joachim Beránek, Sir," he mumbled.

"I'm a general," Bergmann said sharply; Beránek's face grew pale.

"I—I'm sorry, Si—_Herr General_."

"Better."

Beránek winced; Beilschmidt was frowning at Bergmann.

"You're Czech?" Feliks asked him, hoping to relieve some tension.

Beránek glanced at him, startled, and nodded.

"My favorite cousin's Czech," Feliks said casually. "Ludmila Dušková, d'you know her?"

Beilschmidt rolled his eyes; Beránek shook his head.

"Ah, well, that's not surprising."

"Then why bother asking?" Beilschmidt muttered.

"I haven't heard from her since before the war started, I'm worried."

"Do you really rank your cousins based on how much you like them?" Bergmann asked dryly.

Feliks frowned at him. "I think everyone has a _favorite _cousin. Especially people with a family tree like mine."

"How many 'cousins' do you have, anyway?" Beilschmidt asked.

Feliks shrugged. "Depends on who you ask. Personally, I like to think I'm not related to Braginsky, but he keeps calling me his cousin when he wants something from me," _or just wants _me, "so there's no getting out of that." He smirked. "It's a bit like you and Edelstein in a way."

He scowled. "I'd much rather have Edelstein as a cousin than Braginsky, though; at least Edelstein has the decency not to publicly claim relation to me."

"Well, you know how Braginsky is with family."

Beilschmidt snorted. "True. And I'm sure he loves you very much."

"I assure you, the feeling's mutual."

Both Bergmann and Beránek looked completely lost, but Feliks didn't care.

"Tell me, Beránek," Bergmann said, butchering the pronunciation, "how do you know Leni?"

Beilschmidt's frown was back.

"I—I work for her, Si—_Herr General_. Around—around the house."

"Do you, now?"

"He just said he did," Beilschmidt said; Bergmann shot him a dark look.

"Yes, _Herr General_."

"I'll be in your office," Feliks muttered in the countries' language; Beilschmidt frowned at him but nodded, and he slipped off in search of Nowakowa. What he would say or do once he found her, he couldn't have said, but she _bothered_ him. He spent more than ten minutes wandering around the building somewhat aimlessly, until he spotted the handyman slinking around. Feliks followed him to the basement, which, even in July, was cold enough to give him gooseflesh. He hardly dared to breathe; it was dark, and every noise seemed to be amplified a hundred times, but at last he found some dark nook near a rather convenient supply closet Feliks was able to slip inside.

"What are you doing here?" the handyman asked in Russian; he was speaking in little more than a whisper, and his voice was muffled by the door, but Feliks could still just make out what he was saying.

"Why have you bothered meeting me?" Nowakowa asked coldly. "You risk far more than I do if you're caught."

Feliks couldn't hear his response, but he could hear a loud slap, followed by silence—the two of them listening to see if anyone had heard, he guessed.

"I outrank you," he hissed, barely audible through the door.

"You're only what you are because you're one of Braginsky's little _pets_," Nowakowa replied, acid dripping from her words. "You're only _alive_ because he has a soft spot for you, don't you forget that for a moment."

"_You're_ only where you are because you're Duchovny's whore," he snapped; Feliks could hear her slap him again.

"_You_'_re _replaceable."

"Without me, you wouldn't have any information on Beilschmidt—"

"No, without his _secretary_ I wouldn't have any information. There's nothing stopping me from going to the source herself."

"Aside from your pride."

Her response was too muffled by the door for him to make out, but he could hear the handyman laugh.

"And how would he thank her for her help? A quick death rather than a slow one?"

"How would _you _thank her?" Nowakowa retorted. "Don't tell me you've grown _attached_." Her sneer was audible.

"Of course not, I just have no desire to kill a sixteen-year-old girl."

"She's a liability, Grobinsky."

Grobinsky, he'd heard that name before….

"She's our greatest asset—"

"_Your _greatest asset, maybe."

"You said yourself she's the source of all information on Beilschmidt."

Several moments passed where Feliks couldn't make out what either of them were saying; he focused on trying to remember where he'd heard that name before….

"Is she smart enough to realize that, whoever wins the war, she's dead?"

Over twenty years ago, signing a peace treaty with Braginsky…. There had been someone, little more than a boy, who never left his side. Feliks couldn't quite remember his face, but he was reasonably certain he remembered his name. Ilya…something…Grobinsky. Or maybe not, but, regardless of that, the handyman was _definitely_ a spy. _And so is Irena Kowalczykówna_. Feliks frowned into the darkness. It was _possible _that she'd been coerced—Feliks _hoped _she had been—but the sinking feeling in his stomach said that no, she probably hadn't been. She didn't strike him as the type who could be easily manipulated, somehow. It occurred to him that he'd have to tell Beilschmidt about her….

His thoughts were interrupted by a door slamming shut somewhere; it was followed by complete silence and then, several minutes later, shuffling footsteps. He waited, but they both seemed to have left, so he slid out of the closet and made his way upstairs to Beilschmidt's office.

It was raining, but he didn't notice. "Where's Beilschmidt?" he asked Hanna, more out of breath than he'd expected.

She glanced up at him from the desk, eyes wide. "I don't know. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He paused, rocking onto the balls of his feet, fidgety. "D'you know where Irena Kowalczykówna is?" Surely Hanna didn't know, he realized. Surely not.

Hanna frowned. "She's visiting her mother."

"You're _sure_?"

"I've never known her to lie to me about it." She stood. "Pan Feliks, you look—"

"I'm _fine_," he said again. "I just need to—I'll be back, I need to talk to Wagner."

The general wasn't in his office, and Feliks could feel his panic wrapping around his chest, making it hard to breathe. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths and went off in search of him. What time was it? Was it late enough that he was eating dinner? Had he left the building? And where the hell was Beilschmidt?

_That _question was answered quickly enough; Feliks rounded a corner and smashed into his back, earning a dark look.

"What the _hell _happened to you?" Beilschmidt demanded. Feliks backed up a couple of steps, realizing he'd interrupted a conversation with Bergmann.

"Where's General Wagner?" he asked franticly in response.

"Why?" Beilschmidt and Bergmann asked at once.

"Because I need to _talk _to him." Why didn't anyone _understand_?

"Calm down," Beilschmidt muttered. "You look half-mad."

"Yeah, well. Remember my suspicions 'bout the handyman?"

Beilschmidt straightened up. "Alright, then, let's go find Wagner," he said, grabbing Feliks's arm—though Feliks quickly pushed him away. Bergmann followed.

Wagner, it turned out, had been trapped in conversation with Zimmer—Feliks guessed the doctor had insisted on meeting Elena, though Zimmer was the only one of the three who didn't look pissed off to some degree. The general stood when he saw the three of them. "What's going on?"

Feliks took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, not sure how much he could say in front of Elena and wanting to leave Irena out of it for the time being. "Your handyman," he said, "he's been spying on you for the Russians."

Wagner didn't look terribly surprised by this, though his wife stared up at him with wide eyes.

Zimmer, who also looked unsurprised, said, "How do you know?"

Feliks focused on Wagner and said, as calmly as he could, "I overheard him speaking with Olga Nowakowa."

Had Elena not been present, Feliks suspected Wagner would have started to swear at that moment—though, he couldn't help but to notice, he still seemed unsurprised. Pissed off, sure, but not surprised.

Bergmann was an equal, and Beilschmidt probably technically far outranked them both, but, voice ringing with a new authority, Wagner gave them a simple order.

"_Find them_."

Ilya was pacing back and forth in a little hidden-away hallway when Irena came running to him, dark eyes wide, hair wet with rain.

"What's wrong?" he asked as she caught her breath.

"They know," she gasped, looking up at him. "Poland knows about you."

Ilya stared at her for a couple heartbeats, not processing. "What?"

"He _knows_," she hissed, composure regained. "I heard him, he told Prussia and Bergmann and he's going to tell Wagner!"

He could feel the blood drain from his face.

"_Go_," she said. "Get out of here!"

"Come with me."

"What? No. Go, go!" She glanced over her shoulder and turned back to him. "I'll be fine, he doesn't know about me, just _go_!"

It was after midnight when Feliks and Beilschmidt returned to Beilschmidt's office. Neither Nowakowa nor Grobinsky had been found.

"Someone _had _to have warned them," Beilschmidt said for at least the fiftieth time as he sat down angrily. The flame of a match, quickly exchanged for the glowing butt of a cigarette, was the only real source of light in the room.

Feliks hesitated. "There's…something else I overheard," he muttered. "Something I didn't want to say in front of Wagner." _Or Bergmann, or Zimmer_.

Beilschmidt glared at him. "Well, thanks a lot for speaking up sooner."

Feliks scowled at him. "Grobinsky was spying on _you _specifically."

"And how the hell was he—no. No, not even _she _could be so petty. Or stupid. It _can't_ be her." He inhaled deeply on the cigarette. "It _can't_."

_She _appeared in the doorway at that moment, as though summoned by magic.

"Turn the light on," Beilschmidt ordered her, voice rough. She obeyed.

Irena's dark hair was soaked; stray ringlets were plastered to her face. She glanced back and forth between Feliks and Beilschmidt, wary, staying close to the door.

"Where the hell were you?" Beilschmidt demanded. "Do you have _any _idea how late it is?"

"I was with my mother," she said quietly.

Feliks frowned at her. "Were you?"

Beilschmidt motioned for her to come closer; she hesitated, but decided that the look on Beilschmidt's face meant she should obey, though she did maintain some distance from both of them.

"You've done some stupid shit in the past," Beilschmidt said slowly, "but I always had some faith in you. I thought you had some limits to what you'd do."

Her face grew pale. "What's going on?" she asked softly, eyes darting between them, looking for an answer.

Beilschmidt took a drag on his cigarette and Feliks decided to answer for him. "I overheard a conversation between Olga Nowakowa and Ilya Grobinsky today, and your name happened to come up a few times."

She shook her head slightly, taking a few steps back.

"Why?" Beilschmidt asked. If Feliks hadn't known better, he'd have thought he was genuinely hurt.

"You were dead," she whispered, dark eyes wide. "You were dead, and then you weren't, and I was—I was _scared_, and he—he had answers."

Beilschmidt sighed, burying his face in his hand, cigarette buried in the ashtray on his desk. Feliks glanced at him—he hadn't heard _that_ story.

"You know they'll kill you, right?" Feliks demanded.

She turned to him. "What else was I supposed to do?"

"Łukasiewicz," Beilschmidt muttered.

"What?"

"Get out."

"_What_?"

"You heard me. I want to talk to her alone."

Feliks stared at him for a moment, until he looked up at him, frowning.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he snapped on his way out, scowling at Beilschmidt.

Gil sighed again, watching him leave, before he stood slowly. Irena followed his every move as he walked around his desk and stood in front of her.

"I trusted you," he said. _I am in _far _too deep_.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, pleading.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "How much did you tell him?"

"I—I didn't tell him _everything_."

"Irena."

Some color returned to her cheeks. "I—especially the last couple months I haven't—I asked him to let me out—"

"And he said no." Gil sighed yet again. "Irena, Łukasiewicz is right. They _will _kill you."

"And you lot won't?"

Gil reached out to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She stared at him. "I'm not going to let anyone hurt you, Irena."

She seemed skeptical. "Why not?"

He frowned at her. "Irena…. Like I said, you've done some stupid shit. And I'm not going to pretend that I'm not…upset about this. I _am_. But—" He almost told her that he was disappointed, not angry, but that wasn't quite true. "But you—I…I don't _want _you to get hurt. I _definitely _don't want you to be killed." His voice was thick, and he was tired, but there it was.

There was a moment of nothing—and then Irena suddenly moved to hug him, burying her face in his shoulder. "Thank you," she mumbled.

He was so shocked it took him several heartbeats to hug her back.

"I _am_ still angry," he murmured. "We'll talk more about that in the morning."

She nodded, then froze. "Please don't tell my mother."

Gil smiled despite himself. "I won't."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Leni was waiting up for him, sitting at his desk, still in her clothes.

"What are you doing, _Schatzi_?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound nearly as tired as he felt.

"It's been three years," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "_Three years_, Hans. When are you coming home?"

He sighed, back turned to her, leaning against the door. Rain dripped from his hair down his face.

"I don't have any say in the matter, Leni, you know that."

He could hear her cross the room to him, but he didn't move until she wrapped her arms around him. "Please, Hans," she breathed, burying her face into his chest as he pulled her closer. "I miss you, the girls miss you—please. Please. Come home."

He sighed. He ought to tell her….

"Schatzi, there's…. There's something I need to tell you."

"About what?"

"About…. Olga Nowakowa."

_**Hello! I have some little maintenance updates for all of you (and translations, of course, at the end)!**_

_**-Updated content warnings/tags on both FFN and Archive (please let me know if I should tag anything else!)**_

_**-Changed one genre on FFN to "Fantasy"**_

_**-Removed LietPol ship tag on Archive**_

_**-Smooshed a few more chapters together (sorry)**_

_**Additionally, I'm going to try and post…something…once a week (probably on weekends). This could be a chapter of Fire and Ice, or a one shot, or maybe a new longer, multi-chapter fic I have some ideas for, so keep your eyes out for that :) **_

_**Translations**_

Gnä' [gnädige] Frau – Madam, Ma'am (literally "graceful woman/Ms.")

Schatzi – literally "treasure;" German term of endearment (which can be used with both men and women)


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